


Among the Clouds

by museaway



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: (you'll know it when you see it), AU, Academy Era, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Falling In Love, Flirting, Gratuitous rip of a line from Clueless, Jealousy, Lies by omission, M/M, Pining, Poetry, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-14 23:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1282972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway/pseuds/museaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock's own bonding with T'Pring had been decided by his parents based on mental compatibility. It was logical. Desiring to be with Jim was not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jouissant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/gifts).



> For Jouiss. Happy birthday. <3
> 
> This is loosely based on the Harriett/Mr. Martin relationship from _Emma_ (and the Tai/Travis relationship from _Clueless_ , which is a modern-day _Emma_ AU). Jouiss also requested all the angst. So, let's do this.
> 
>  _Thank you_ to [Jad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jad) and [hipposandeggshells](http://hipposandeggshells.tumblr.com/) for reading over this for me! And another thanks to Jad for finding the title.
> 
> Jad advised I add the following warning: Do not consume beverages while reading. (Apparently I owe her a laptop.)
> 
> If I messed up the one line of Vulcan in this story, please, please send me a message (fandomspeak at gmail) so I can correct it. Thanks!

_Unsuitable_. 

That was the word T'Vei had used to describe Jim, when Spock indicated that he was meeting him for lunch. He was unsuitable. Spock was an ambassador's son, she said, so it was expected that the person he marry command a certain level of society.

Jim was enrolled in Starfleet Academy. He was a student, though he taught classes two nights a week and was studying for the Captain's exam, which made them contemporaries. Spock saw Jim weekly, had seen him ever since the first night at the coffee shop two blocks from the academy's campus. They had been the only two attendants at a poetry reading. Jim had asked if it would be alright for him to sit with Spock. He wore a leather jacket and a smile, and cocked his head to the side when he spoke. Spock had decided there was no logic in sitting alone, and allowed it, though he doubted from Jim's appearance that he had an actual interest in poetry. Spock suspected he might have a romantic interest in the poet, a young Orion woman with large eyes and red hair who stood nervously at the microphone. 

"I don't usually hang out in places like this, but Gaila's a friend of mine," Jim whispered and winked. "I promised her I'd come."

Spock expected him to leer at her. He had witnessed a young man behave that way the week before, only to be thrown out by the proprietor. Jim surprised him by paying attention as Gaila read her poems. They were melancholy, a celebration of her freedom, yet a reminder of her people's continuing struggle. After each one, Jim nodded his head approvingly and looked to Spock for his reaction. Twice, he wiped his eyes. Spock was also moved by her words, though not to tears. He handed Jim a napkin, which Jim used to blow his nose. Spock grimaced when he thought Jim might deposit it on the table, but he stood and dropped it in a trash bin by the door, then sat back down. 

"She's good, right?" Jim whispered when Gaila took a drink of water. "What did you think of the phoenix metaphor?"

"It is perhaps cliche," Spock said thoughtfully, "yet appropriate."

"She's pretty awesome," Jim agreed. "Do you write any of this stuff?"

"I find poetry translation a satisfying diversion," Spock confessed, "but I do not compose my own."

Jim appeared genuinely proud as he watched Gaila resume the microphone. Spock regretted the initial impression he had made of Jim based upon his appearance.

When the reading was over, Jim presented Spock with his ID. 

"Message me? Maybe we can hang out again sometime." He got up from the table to embrace Gaila. Spock finished his tea while the two of them spoke and scanned through his messages. He answered six before observing them leave together. Gaila's hand was in Jim's back pocket. 

Spock had been content to message Jim, to meet with him in that same shop, to listen to poetry and fiction and to mull over Jim's opinions. To take pleasure in such things was perhaps illogical, but Spock derived satisfaction from their regular meetings regardless. He found himself looking forward to them. He had never considered Jim as a possible life partner, not until T'Vei looked him square in the eye at the completion of their office hours and declared Jim to be unsuitable. 

Which led to Spock's current predicament, attempting to maintain a neutral expression, though he could feel the tips of his ears growing hot. 

"He is promiscuous," she continued, straightening her desk. 

"That is his business," Spock defended and focused on his stylus. 

"He is a poor choice for a partner," she declared, "despite your heritage."

Spock frowned. He was certain that Jim did not view him in a romantic light. He considered the facts. They had spent a total of forty-seven point two five hours in each other's presence and exchanged one hundred sixty-one messages, the average word count of Jim's being nine point one words. From what Spock understood of human romantic relationships, they consisted of a series of contrived activities designed to force a sense of intimacy between individuals. He failed to understand how consuming a meal in someone's exclusive presence or viewing a vid in a dark theater (during which one did not discuss the presentation, merely observed it) served as an efficient way to determine whether two individuals were suited for long-term partnership. The idea was exhausting, and it did not describe his association with Jim. 

Jim had never invited Spock to spend time alone (they always met publicly), and he never suggested they dine in private but in the academy's cafeteria or in the company of friends. Spock had witnessed him kiss Gaila on the mouth eleven times and exchange IDs with eight individuals in order to, Spock presumed, arrange sexual activity. Jim had never propositioned him. He desired Spock's friendship, Spock decided, and nothing more. 

That was best. Spock's own bonding with T'Pring had been decided by his parents based on mental compatibility. They would be drawn together by the primary urges of their species. It was logical. Desiring to be with Jim was not. 

Spock should not be thinking about this. 

He wished T'Vei a pleasant afternoon and began the walk to the cafeteria. 

***

"So my Tuesday lecture next semester is overenrolled," Jim was saying as he perused the offerings set up on the front counter as they waited to pay. It was their twenty-third lunch together. "They're making me accept another eight students."

"Ah," Spock said. 

"And the evil trolls in HR are refusing to assign me a grading assistant, if you can believe it. It's not like I have studying of my own to do or anything. Oh, Snickers," he said with a degree of melancholy. Spock glanced to the chocolate bar, advertised by large white letters on a dark wrapper. He skimmed the ingredients and frowned at the mention of peanuts. 

"You will go into shock," Spock pointed out.

"I wish I could taste it," Jim said wistfully. "My mom's always had a thing for retro candy, and they look so good."

"If you like," Spock said, "I will purchase one and describe the texture and flavor to you."

"You know they contain chocolate, right?"

"A small amount will have little effect," Spock said.

"It would just make me jealous, but thanks," Jim said and elbowed him in a manner Spock supposed was affectionate. Jim produced a credit chip and paid for Spock's lunch before Spock could protest. He pointed to a table with his tray, and they sat across from each other.

"So, how're your classes going?" Jim asked through a French fry (which Spock had learned did not actually originate in France but possibly Belgium). Spock took a moment to reply, considering the imprecision of Federation Standard. Spock knew that Jim was not inquiring how the classes progressed but rather of Spock's personal experience with those classes thus far. 

"Satisfactorily," he replied. 

"Yeah, mine aren't great either," Jim confessed, smearing a fry in a puddle of an acidic tomato-based condiment. He placed it in his open mouth with a grin and chewed. "Glad the semester's almost over, though I did sign up for the xeno club. Thought it might be a way to get a leg up on my language classes."

"Undoubtedly," Spock agreed. "If you require assistance with Vulcan, I hope you will tell me."

"Yeah?" Jim said, straightening in his chair. He wiped greasy fingers on his cadet uniform. Spock frowned minutely and reached for his napkin, but he nodded in response to Jim's inquiry. 

"That'd be awesome, man. Thanks. I'm actually struggling a little with the syntax."

"Would you care to discuss it now?"

"Actually...you want to get together later?" Jim suggested. "I'll buy you dinner."

Spock paused. Jim had paid for his lunch, and now he was offering to provide Spock with his evening meal as well. Perhaps he had been mistaken regarding Jim's intentions. He sat straighter at the thought. 

"To say thanks," Jim clarified.

"Ah," Spock said and took a long sip of water. He drank until he had stopped any coloring in his cheeks. "Yes. That would be acceptable."

"Cool," Jim said. "Want to come by my place, or should we go to yours?"

"I will not be leaving campus until 1900 hours. Your apartment is close to campus and is on my way home. Therefore, it is the logical choice."

Jim smiled but seemed to hide it behind his hand.

"Have I said something humorous?" Spock asked with a frown. 

"No, no," Jim said, waving a hand in the air as if to dismiss Spock's question. "I just like the way your mind works." 

Spock dipped his chin at the compliment. Jim was not logical like a Vulcan, but he was intelligent. That he had earned Jim's admiration made Spock feel proud, but he suppressed the emotion. 

"What should I order?" Jim asked. 

Spock raised an eyebrow. 

"For dinner?"

Of course. "It is your choice," Spock said. "I consume a variety of Terran dishes."

"What about Italian? There's a place a couple blocks from me that makes eggplant lasagna. It's pretty good."

"I am open to your suggestion," Spock replied. 

"It's a date," Jim said cheerfully and resumed eating his fries. He had not yet begun to consume his hamburger (made of beef,  not pork, though Spock suspected that unlike the French fry, the food was indeed named for its place of origin). Spock found himself strangely content to observe Jim eat it. He lifted a slice of cucumber to his mouth and chewed as he did so, appreciating the light flavor. 

He mulled over Jim's words. A date. A date implied romantic intent, though Spock watched Jim's head turn as a blonde cadet passed their table. He did not name the feeling which passed through him as he observed Jim's action: a sinking in his midsection, a drop in the corners of his mouth. He had not been aware that they had curved upwards.

***

"Professor?"

Spock blinked from his reverie and regarded the young woman who had addressed him. She stood before him with her arms at her sides and a serious expression. She was aesthetically pleasing, with dark eyes and skin, and a slender build. When he did not immediately respond, she lifted an eyebrow slightly.

"Cadet," he said, clearing his throat.

"Uhura," she replied. "I have a question about the assignment."

"You will find the parameters have already synced with your PADD."

"They did," she agreed, "but I need clarification about the format."

He dropped his eyes to his own PADD and scanned the lesson. She was correct. Spock had not been clear as to how he wished the information submitted. 

"I will update the instructions immediately," he said. "Thank you for bringing the omission to my attention."

"Sir," she said. She paused, opened her mouth as though she might speak, then exited the classroom without another word. 

As soon as he could no longer hear her footsteps, Spock updated the assignment and sat back in his chair. He pressed his fingertips together and considered that he was preoccupied with his impending evening with Jim. He was certain that Jim had used the word "date" in jest. A search had revealed that the expression was colloquial, and that indicating something to be a date could mean nothing more than a confirmation of plans. Its use was not exclusive to individuals seeking a pairbond. 

For the fourth time, he found himself experiencing a negative physical reaction to the notion that Jim had meant "date" in a casual sense. It was not logical that Spock should wish to go on a date with Jim, primarily because he was going to forge a permanent bond with T'Pring. That would occur within the next decade, if his father's biology could be used to predict his own. It would be unfair of him to lead Jim or any other to believe a future might exist between them.

No. He would go to the computer bank and work on changes to the _Kobayashi Maru_ simulation, taking into account a recent attempt to divert power to forward shields by shutting down life-support systems on lower decks. This evening, he would go to Jim's apartment. He would explain syntax, and they would consume eggplant. Jim's roommate, a medical doctor, would likely be present. Jim would thank Spock for his assistance, and they would make plans to meet for coffee or lunch later in the week. They would not engage in amorous behavior, despite Spock's unnecessary physical reaction to the image of Jim unclothed. 

***

The evening did not progress as Spock expected. 

Jim met him at the door in civilian clothes, a deep blue shirt which complemented his eye color. Spock's mouth felt unexpectedly dry as he removed his outer coat and handed it to Jim, who hung it crookedly in the closet. His eyes were an extraordinary color. They were not, as he had first thought, the pale blue typical of many Terrans. They were a rich shade, jewel toned, like Earth's tropical oceans. He swallowed and accessed his central controls to prevent a flush in his cheeks. They felt overly warm. Spock was grateful for the low lighting in Jim's apartment.

"It's just us," Jim said, waving Spock further into the apartment. "Bones has clinic duty. Food's already here. Do you want to eat first, while it's still hot?"

"Yes," Spock said. He watched Jim take down two plates and set them on the kitchen table. At its center was a single green candle in a glass jar. Jim lit the wick, and a woodsy scent began to drift throughout the room. He had witnessed his mother create a tableau with candles in order to create what she called "an atmosphere" (illogical). However, Jim employed the use of a single candle, which Spock determined was intended only to improve air quality. 

"What do you want to drink?" Jim asked, opening the refrigerator. "I've got beer, orange juice...and it looks like Bones has a pitcher of tea in here."

"I will have tea," Spock said.

"Oh," Jim said, turning around with one hand touching the pitcher. "It's Southern style, so it's full of sugar. Is that a problem?"

"In that case, I will not select tea."

"Sorry," Jim told him. "Our replicator makes shit coffee, but the tea might be passable. Want to try it?"

"Negative," Spock said. "I will drink water."

"I'll pick up some plain tea bags next time I'm at the store."

Did that mean Jim anticipated that Spock would visit often? He was irritated by the involuntary pull of muscles at the corner of his mouth. Jim was merely being polite. 

"That is unnecessary," he said, but Jim just smiled at him.

"Black or green?" he asked. 

"Green," Spock answered, unable to control the increase in his heart rate. 

"Green it is," Jim said sunnily and poured them both a glass of water. He opened the container which held their meal, and Spock inhaled the aroma of oregano and garlic. 

"I found this place when I first moved here," Jim said and deposited a portion on either plate. "I finally had enough of replicated burgers. They can really back you up."

"Please clarify."

"Uh," Jim said, carrying both plates to the table. He pulled out a chair and sat down. Spock followed suit and took a napkin from a stack against the wall, smoothing it over his lap. "I mean my stomach doesn't feel great after a few days of eating them."

"Ah," Spock said. "You mean that such a diet may result in constipation."

Jim laughed and shook his head, but he smiled broadly. 

"If all Vulcans talk like you do, I've got to visit your planet sometime."

"Our accents vary based on one's region. My speech patterns are representative of Vulcan's Forge, specifically the city of ShiKahr."

"Then I'll start there. Maybe you'll show me around."

Jim continued to smile, and while Spock discerned that Jim's amusement stemmed from him, Jim's expression was not mocking. Spock looked down at his plate, to the right and left of it for skewers, but Jim had not provided him with any. He prepared to explain, for the one hundred twenty-seventh time since arriving on Earth, that Vulcans do not eat with their hands, when Jim pointed at his own plate. 

"We need forks," he muttered and stood up. He rummaged through a drawer beside the sink. The utensils clattered against one another unpleasantly. Jim pulled out two mismatched forks and set them onto the table with a clink. Spock took one and began to separate his food into a grid pattern. 

"So when's the last time you were home?" Jim asked, using the side of his fork to separate a generous bite of lasagna. Spock calculated it was too large for his mouth. Jim's cheeks puffed out and he chewed, somehow managing to keep his mouth closed. 

"I have not returned to Vulcan since I enlisted in Starfleet," Spock answered, eyes trailing Jim's lips. 

"Don't you get homesick?" Jim asked once he swallowed and licked them.

"I have memories of my planet," Spock replied and finally looked away. "And I speak with my mother weekly."

"Yeah, I haven't seen my mom in over a year," Jim replied, "but she was gone a lot when we were growing up."

"Who raised you?"

"My stepdad," Jim said. "I thought when my mom remarried it meant she'd be around more, but she got assigned a couple months later to a science vessel and was gone. Sam and I stayed with Frank until...well, until I went to live with my uncle. When I got back, it wasn't long before Sam left, so it was just me and Frank for a few years."

"It is fortunate that you had a constant guardian."

"I guess? I owe him a call. Mom divorced him when I was early 20s. He moved out East. We kept in touch for a while, but it was...it's easy to forget to call somebody back. After a while, the messages just tapered off."

Jim's mouth was tight, and there was a crease between his eyebrows which had not been present a minute earlier. Jim was upset. Spock tried to recall how his father had handled similar dilemmas with Spock's mother. It would be prudent to change the subject. 

"Are you attending the poetry reading tomorrow evening?" he asked. 

"Nah," Jim said. "I've got too much to do, and I'll never graduate early if I keep staying out until 0200 every night."

"I see," Spock said.

"Besides," Jim said with a shy grin. "I kind of like it, just the two of us."

Spock could not stop the warmth that spread through him at Jim's words. He stared at Jim dumbly, aware that his own lips were parted and that his breathing had increased by forty-one point six percent. 

"Assuming you're okay with that?" Jim added. 

Spock's thoughts shifted to T'Pring, to the point in his mind where he could just discern her presence. It was weaker than it should have been after twenty years. Occasionally, T'Pring let herself be known, but her connection to Spock was largely silent. He allowed himself an indulgent thought: Jim's presence in his mind, of laughter and a bright smile. It was not an impossibility. Spock's father had married a human, after all. What would it be like, he wondered, to touch minds with someone who desired him?

When Spock found his voice, he murmured "yes" and held his breath when Jim nudged his foot beneath the table. 

"Good," Jim said, shoving another forkful of lasagna in his mouth and leaning back in his chair. 

Spock spent the remainder of the meal contemplating the exact shade of Jim's eyes.

***

"I won't bite," Jim said, blinking innocently as he reclined on the sofa. Spock frowned. 

"Is that a common concern among humans?" he inquired. His mother had attempted to instruct him about several human idiosyncrasies, but he was unaware that some humans harbored such a fear. 

"It's just an expression," Jim offered. "It means you can sit closer to me, if you want."

"Oh," Spock said and adjusted his position on Jim's couch. Their thighs were exactly one centimeter apart at their greatest distance. Spock's myocardiocytes increased their rate of contraction due to Jim's proximity. He knew that humans were tactile, that they used touch to communicate, but he did not understand the exact delineation between platonic and romantic actions. He scowled. 

"You look kinda confused," Jim said kindly. He moved his hand to Spock's thigh. With his thumb, he massaged the edge of Spock's patella. Spock swallowed and trained his eyes on Jim's hand. "I like you. So, if you want to do this..."

Spock was uncertain as to Jim's meaning, but he could detect a desire for sexual contact, even through fabric. Spock had not engaged in such behavior since leaving Vulcan and found his body responding to the idea. 

"I thought you required assistance with syntax?" he asked, embarrassed by the rise in his voice. 

"I _also_ require assistance with syntax," Jim murmured. He had shifted closer. There was no space between their legs now, and his hand was positioned halfway between Spock's knee and groin. 

"Are you proposing that we engage in sexual intercourse?" Spock said thickly, aware of Jim's warm breath against his neck.

"Yes." 

Spock's heart thudded in his side. "Then my answer is affirmative."

"Good," Jim said, and it was the last thing he said before he cupped a hand over Spock's cheek and touched their mouths together. 

It was altogether different from kissing as Spock knew it. Jim's mouth was warm, wet where he parted it. With his lips, he caressed Spock's. He partly closed them around Spock's lower lip, repeated this on his upper lip and at the corner of his mouth. Jim teased Spock's mouth open with his tongue. It was simultaneously disgusting and thrilling. Spock tasted garlic and oregano and tomato. With his right hand, he blindly sought out one of Jim's and squeezed. He thrilled when Jim squeezed back. 

Despite his effort to shield himself from Jim's thoughts, Spock was distracted by the patterns Jim was creating on his skin, and they bled through: 

_so hot, wanted him since I first_

_wonder if he'll fuck me_  

 _thank god he looks nothing like_ —

Jealousy was illogical. Jim was not his, but Spock suddenly understood why a person might bite another. He mouthed along Jim's jaw line to his neck, to the skin over his jugular, and applied pressure with his teeth. 

***

Jim owned a bed larger than any Spock had seen. He required little preparation prior to intercourse and arched up into Spock's hand. Spock had never slept with a human and gasped at the hot pull. 

"Oh, _fuck_ , you feel good," Jim said through clenched teeth. 

It was a sign of pain; Spock was aware of Jim's discomfort. It seeped through every point where their skin touched. But Jim did not ask him to stop. He dug his fingernails into Spock's thighs and adjusted the leg he had thrown over Spock's shoulder. Spock marveled at the sight of their connected bodies, and watched himself disappear into Jim. 

 _Unsuitable_. 

He forced the word aside, thrust his hips once, twice, and saw blue behind his eyes as his body achieved climax. 

Jim smiled at him lazily across the pillow afterwards and kissed him before he fell asleep. It occurred to Spock, when he left Jim's apartment at 0545 hours the following morning, that they had never spoken about syntax. 

***

Beneath the sonic shower in his apartment, Spock replayed the events of the night before: Jim's fingers in his hair, the sharp points of his teeth, the warmth of the skin on his inner thigh. Spock was alone, so he allowed himself to smile at the memory of Jim surrounding him. 

He had never been held following intimacy. For most Vulcans, sexual activity was perfunctory. Once both partners were satisfied, they either slept or parted ways. Further physical contact was unnecessary. Jim had stroked his hand, entwined it in his when he closed his eyes. Spock had remained awake an additional thirty-nine minutes, wondering if he should leave, if Jim would expect him to. He sat up and pushed the covers aside, intent on going quietly, when Jim's arms came around his waist. They tugged him backward, so that Jim was pressed up against him from behind. Spock settled into him and memorized the feel of Jim's arms. 

He thought about them as he dressed for the day. He arrived on campus early. He did not expect to see Jim until they broke for lunch, and was surprised to find him seated in the first row when he entered the lecture hall at 0800 hours. 

"Couldn't wait until noon," Jim said and bit his lip, but he rose and walked to Spock's side with his hands in his pockets. "You get home okay?"

"I did."

Jim quickly glanced to the door, then back to Spock. "I had fun last night."

For the first time, Spock understood what his mother had meant when she described the sensation of butterflies in her stomach. "I did as well." He dipped his chin and asked, "Would you meet me later?"

"Actually, if you don't mind, I was gonna sit in on your lecture, see if I could tempt you out for breakfast once it's over."

"I hold office hours after this lecture," Spock said apologetically. 

"Lunch, then?"

"Yes."

"Dinner again?"

"Yes."

"I've got leftovers, or we could go out." 

"I have no preference," Spock said. 

"Well, you think about it," Jim said. He inhaled sharply, rose up on his toes and kissed Spock briefly, then took his seat as students entered. 

The kiss was all Spock thought about during lecture, which explained why he lost his place no fewer than eleven times. Cadet Uhura watched him curiously from the second row, even raised an eyebrow at him when he inadvertently switched off the board display. Jim grinned into his hand from his position in the first row of seats, slumped low in his chair, a disposable coffee cup (which Spock did not even permit in his classroom) sitting next to him. The room smelled of coffee, and Spock suppressed the urge to smile when it was Jim who correctly answered his question about Argelian intonation. 

They hardly made it to Spock's office before Jim's hands were on him and Spock was pulling at the fastenings which secured Jim's shirt. Jim smiled against Spock's lips; the kiss was a clash of teeth as Spock fumbled to lock the door.

"This is not appropriate," he said into Jim's mouth. 

"No shit," Jim said before he muttered "but _aitlu nash-veh du_ " into Spock's ear in a surprisingly good Vulcan accent. 

Later, as they ensured their uniforms didn't bely what had just happened, and Jim reached up to smooth the front of Spock's hair, Spock wondered if Jim's story about requiring assistance with Vulcan had been fabricated. 

***

They spent Friday and Saturday nights at Jim's apartment, in the dark of his room, safe from the narrowed gaze of Jim's human and (Spock suspected) xenophobic roommate. His name was Leonard McCoy, though Jim referred to him as "Bones." Spock did not bother to ask why and spoke to McCoy as little as possible. In the privacy of the bedroom, he allowed Jim to undress him. He mapped Jim's body with his fingertips. It was only logical to appreciate such an excellent form. A work of art is intended to be celebrated, even on Vulcan.

Jim lay curled against Spock's side, a leg thrown over Spock's legs, and traced a finger over his chest. Spock closed his eyes, and he attempted to form a constellation from the pattern Jim created. It took form in his mind: solid and strong, a formidable shape. Spock conjured a flash of green fur and sharp teeth in the form of a _le-matya_. He shivered.

"You okay?" Jim asked. Spock sought out his hand and held it.

"Yes," he said, and he felt Jim burrow closer. Jim's body was so much warmer than Spock's; his half of the bed radiated heat. Spock soaked in it, warmed through for the first time since arriving on Earth. Jim's movements slowed, until the broad, sweeping patterns became a gentle caress along Spock's sternum. Jim kissed his shoulder. 

"Oh, hey," he asked, lifting his head. "Are you going to the leadership consortium we're doing with the VSA on Friday? I asked Bones about it this morning, but he doesn't have to go. Pike told me it's mandatory for command track."

"I will be in attendance," Spock confirmed. 

"Good," Jim said and yawned against Spock's pectoral muscle. "At least I'll know someone there."

"Surely you will know many of the attendants." 

"Well, there's knowing and there's _knowing_ ," Jim said. 

Spock was surprised that it was possible to discern a smile in Jim's voice, but there it was, beaming at him in the dark. Jim's words were imprecise, but Spock thought he understood the distinction Jim was making. He placed his own hand on top of Jim's and stroked the back of it. Anatomically, they were no different from Spock's hands, but Jim's were rougher. He had a torn cuticle on all four fingers, a cut on the inside of his thumb. He chewed his fingernails: the edges felt uneven as Spock rubbed them with the pad of his index finger. 

The motion stirred something in him; he felt his arousal surge. He felt primal: a desert creature, a Vulcan. How ironic that a human would be the one to inspire such a feeling in him. Spock's penis filled with blood, pushing against the covers Jim had thrown haphazardly over them. Spock shifted, and the movement cause the sheet to tug over the head, causing enough friction that he hissed. He pressed down hard on Jim's fingernail, reveled in the half-moon-shaped ache. Vulcan had no moon, but Jim was bright, and he could be Spock's.

The thought was sentimental and ridiculous. Illogical. Spock threw his head back when Jim rolled on top of him, moaning as their erections connected, and he told himself he did not care.

***

"I do not understand the purpose of this action," Spock declared. They sat on the couch in Jim's apartment. It was morning. Jim wore thin, cotton pants and no shirt. His hair was bed tousled. He yawned into a mug of coffee held in his left hand and blinked at Spock, bleary eyed. 

Between them, their hands touched. Jim had instructed Spock to hold his hand flat, perpendicular to his chest, palm parallel with the wall to Spock's left. He was then to curl his hand into a "c" so it could be linked to Jim's. Jim sat opposite and hooked their fingertips together. Their thumbs rested alongside one another, and Spock admired the difference in skin tone. Jim's skin was pale with pink undertones. In Earth's yellow sunlight, Spock's skin appeared like olivine. He wondered what Jim would look like on Vulcan, likely similar to Spock's mother, who always appeared flushed and rosy. He wondered how the light would affect Jim's eyes, if they would appear lavender or a deeper blue. Perhaps indigo. 

"It's a thumb war," Jim said. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. "The purpose is to win.  On three, you try to pin my thumb under yours."

"I see," Spock said. 

"Ready?" Jim asked and raised his thumb so that it pointed to the ceiling. Spock followed suit. "One, two, three!"

Despite Spock possessing more strength in his hands, Jim promptly pinned his thumb. "I win," he said. "Rematch?"

Spock considered this "game" to be without a point, until Jim had pinned his thumb a second time and stroked the side of it. He continued until Spock's breath caught. 

"One more?" he asked innocently. Spock nodded and did not even attempt to push Jim's finger down. He relished the pressure of Jim's fingers surrounding his, of the way Jim was leaning toward him on the couch, on the heat of his hand. "You'll have to practice," Jim said. Spock could feel the warmth of Jim's breath on his lips and closed his eyes.

The front door opened; Spock flinched and removed his hand, schooling his features into neutrality and sitting forward on the couch.

"It's just Bones," Jim murmured and kissed him anyway, missing Spock's mouth. Jim's lips pressed to his cheek. 

"You'd better not be _in flagrante_ on my couch," McCoy said gruffly. Spock heard a series of clinks as McCoy ostensibly emptied his pockets into the green glass bowl kept within the entryway. 

"What about the floor?" Jim called back. He laughed and set his coffee on the aptly named table. He reclined against the armrest, propping his feet up on the couch so they touched Spock's thigh. It was an intimate gesture, something Spock had occasionally witnessed his mother do when the three of them retired to the common room in the evenings. As hers had often been, Jim's feet were bare, and his pants rode up so that his ankles were exposed. They were covered in light, sparse hair. Spock found them strangely pleasing, with their almost delicate bone structure. 

"What if you get your own apartment?" McCoy said and came into view. 

"You know, I think Gary's still got a spare bedroom," Jim said. 

"I hope you're joking," McCoy said flatly. Spock met his eyes and nodded politely. 

"Doctor," he said.

"Spock. Nice to see Jim dating a grownup for a change," McCoy said, swatting Jim lightly on the head and walking toward his own room. McCoy's statement confused Spock; he decided McCoy must be referring to the maturity of Jim's past partners, not their age. The idea of Jim with other partners caused him to frown. Spock waited until McCoy's door closed before turning his attention back to Jim, whose mouth was twisted in a smirk.

"He likes you," Jim said and nudged him with a foot. Spock's face went slack. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes," Spock admitted. 

"Bones makes amazing pancakes," Jim said, "but I think he's going to pull one of those mornings where he goes right to bed. Want to go out?"

"Replicated food is fine," Spock said.

"You know," Jim said, "that word's got variable meanings. Let's get dressed, and I'll buy you breakfast."

"That is unnecessary," Spock said, but he stopped talking when Jim crawled over him and put his tongue in Spock's mouth, previous partners forgotten. 

***

They ate in a small diner a few blocks from Jim's apartment, which (upon first glance at its torn seats and ragged menus) made Spock uneasy regarding their sanitation practices. He said as much and offered to take Jim to a vegetarian restaurant two blocks east which made excellent crepes. But Jim assured him the food here was good (and more to the point, safe) as they slid into a booth. Jim removed his jacket and gave the server a thumb's up when he asked if they wanted coffee. They ordered breakfast, and Jim ate enthusiastically, as if he hadn't done so in days. 

"Would it honestly kill you to eat this?" Jim asked, wiping his mouth between bites. He crunched the piece of bacon in question and looked perfectly satisfied.

"I prefer to observe you eating it," Spock told him. Jim's lower lip shone from the grease, and Spock found he desired to lick it away, despite it originating from an animal. He didn't bother to calculate the increase in his heart rate at the thought. Jim rewarded him by running a foot up his leg under the table. Spock paid for breakfast while Jim was in the bathroom (yet another odd word choice, as the facility here did not offer baths). Jim appeared disappointed when he saw their tab had been settled, but he hooked his arm through Spock's as they went outside. 

Jim invited Spock to accompany him on what he insisted was the ideal way to spend a Sunday afternoon. With the end of the semester nearing, it was imperative that Spock return home to grade assignments, but Jim slipped a hand inside his jacket and whispered, "C'mon." Spock decided that grading could wait. They walked to Captain Pike's residence. He met them with a raised eyebrow. 

"Cadet Kirk," he said. "Commander. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Can we borrow your aircar?" Jim asked without bothering to say hello. He smiled broadly. Captain Pike glanced to Spock, then back to Jim and pursed his mouth.

"Spock's going with you?"

"Yup," Jim said. Spock straightened, concentrating on the alignment of his vertebrae. 

"Hm," Pike said, motioning them inside the apartment. "Let me find my keys. Exactly where are you planning on taking it?"

"It's a surprise," Jim said, flinging himself on the couch and patting the spot beside him. Spock sat in the armchair and did not meet Jim's eyes, though he could see the grin in his peripheral vision. 

Pike cast a look to Jim, who rolled his eyes. "Are you trying to spoil the romance?" he asked. 

"The ro—" Pike's face opened in surprise. He gave Spock a scrutinizing look, but then he began to chuckle. "Only you, Kirk."

"Captain," Spock began, clearing his throat. "While Mr. Kirk is a cadet, he is also a fellow professor. Therefore, I concluded that—"

"Relax, Spock," Pike said, turning his attention to a chest of drawers which stood near the front door. He rummaged through the top one. "I don't feel like writing anybody up today. Just keep it to a minimum on campus."

"Yes, sir," Spock said. Pike pulled a rectangular chip from the drawer and tossed it to Jim, who caught it in his right hand. 

"Thanks," he said. 

"You get one scratch on her, and I'll make sure you put in another two years," Pike said with a pointed finger. 

"When have I ever messed up your car?"

"I've seen your record," Pike continued and went into the kitchen. Jim threw back his head and laughed, tucking the chip into his jeans pocket. 

"I thought that was sealed," Jim called after him. 

"You're not the only one who can use a computer, kiddo. Classes going alright?"

"No complaints," Jim said, "though it'd be nice if I didn't have to be on campus at 0730."

"That's why they invented coffee," Pike said. 

Jim laughed again, and Spock considered how close the two of them seemed, as if they were father and son rather than a student and mentor. Spock had worked closely with Captain Pike since he first enlisted in Starfleet, but they had never exhibited this dynamic. He briefly entertained the notion of having a person in his life to confide in, as Jim had. He thought of his mother, who had always tried to eke information and emotion from him. 

"Where's your better half?" Jim asked. Pike came back into the room with two glasses of water; he handed one to each of them and sat down next to the fireplace. It was not lit. 

"Training mission," Pike said. "She'll be sorry she missed you."

"We'll get pizza when she's back in town," Jim said and took a sip of water. 

"She'll be back for the consortium," Pike said. "I expect to see you there."

"Pass up a chance to schmooze the admiralty?" Jim said. "No way."

"Spock," Pike said, "I presume you'll be there too." 

"Yes," Spock said. He drank quietly and wondered how long they needed to sit here before it was permissible to leave. Had this been Vulcan, they would not have had to sit and converse at all. But Spock understood that Pike was doing them a favor, and according to human cultural norms, they owed him the courtesy. He swallowed and said, "My parents will be in attendance."

"You didn't tell me that!" Jim exclaimed. 

"I did not deem it relevant to our conversations." 

"Well...at least I've got a few days before I meet your folks," Jim said and winked at him. "I can practice the greeting. In case you're wondering, my mom won't be there."

"How's she doing?" Pike asked.

"You talk to her more than I do," Jim said. They continued chatting, but Spock mulled over what Jim had just said. 

Did Jim desire to meet Spock's parents? Further, did he expect that the meeting was definite? Spock had never considered making the introduction. Jim had not mentioned the consortium until that morning, and Sarek would only be on Earth for a standard week. If Spock did not introduce them, Sarek could not object. He and Jim could continue their relationship, perhaps even be assigned to the same ship. They would have years, perhaps, before the _kal-if-fee_ , if it happened at all. 

Spock had received word from his father that morning. He was traveling with representatives from the Department of Interstellar Propulsive Research and Development, which included T'Pring's father Soren. His daughter traveled with them.

He wondered if T'Pring knew what had transpired between Spock and Jim, if she could feel it. He had always shielded from her, but there were times, especially when his emotions were heightened, when she sensed impressions. Their association was civil. Unless she challenged, their future together was inevitable. 

He swallowed, his throat tight, and set down his glass. Jim looked at him, tilted his head to the side and asked, "You okay?"

"I am fine," Spock said, aware of the twitch in Jim's mouth.

"I think we'd better get going," Jim said to Pike, hastily rearranging the throw pillows as he got up from the couch. "We've got about an hour's drive."

"Dress uniform for Friday," Pike reminded him as they headed out the door. 

"I even promise to shine my boots," Jim said, guiding Spock into the hallway with a hand pressed warmly to the small of his back. 

Pike stored his aircar in a covered space behind the apartment building. Jim eased it up and out of the lot, onto the street, and gave their destination. The computer spoke a confirmation, but Jim's hands returned to the controls. 

"I don't trust auto pilot in the city," he said, and occasionally took over steering until they were outside the city limits. 

Traffic thinned, and they glided above the road's surface. How odd that Earth had paved roads, when their vehicles travelled above them. Spock supposed it was to indicate the airspace where the aircars were to operate. And, he had found, there were Terrans with a fondness for antique vehicles which relied on wheels for forward movement. Jim ordered the sound system on, and the hum of stringed instruments filled the car. He reached for Spock's hand and held it as they listened. 

"What is our destination?" Spock asked.

"Trust me," Jim said, "it's cool."

Spock did not see the logic in surprises, but the idea clearly pleased Jim, so he sat back and concentrated on their hands. Spock supposed he should feel ashamed by the way he was acting. It violated everything he had been taught. When he had defended his mother as a child, his father had cautioned him against allowing emotions to control him. But he did not feel out of control. Rather, the situation felt...simple.


	2. Chapter 2

The destination was a restored movie house, which screened old-fashioned Terran films. Jim insisted on buying popcorn (without butter) and a large sugary drink which he sipped noisily through a straw (Spock politely refused a taste). They sat in the last row, in red-velvet chairs.

"A seat in the room's center would prove a more adequate position from which to view the screen," Spock said, but Jim just smiled. He laid his jacket on the seat beside him and stretched his legs in front of him, allowing his knees to fall apart. Spock attempted to mimic his position, sitting lower in the chair than he was accustomed, though he kept his knees together. Jim's hands rested on his stomach, around the box of popcorn which he consumed at a rapid pace.

"I estimate that you will finish your popcorn before the film begins," Spock said, checking the time on his comm.

"That's the idea," Jim said and winked at him.

He held out the box of popcorn, but Spock hesitated and shook his head. Jim held up a piece to Spock's lips instead, and Spock accepted it, daring to lick salt from Jim's finger. Jim bit his lip and grinned and fed Spock another piece. He continued until the box was empty, then ran a thumb over Spock's lower lip. Jim's pupils were dilated. His gaze darted from Spock's eyes to his mouth. Spock closed his eyes when Jim kissed him. There was no innocence in it, and Spock wondered why Jim would initiate sexual behavior in a public place when there was no opportunity for release. He allowed Jim to kiss him until two minutes past the advertised showtime, when the theater lights dimmed.

"It's starting," Jim whispered and settled back in his chair, resting a hand on Spock's knee.

Spock took little enjoyment from fiction, though his mother had often encouraged him to read novels. However, he found he was content to sit with Jim in the dark, to feel Jim's hand move over his leg, toward his groin, and oh—

He understood why Jim had selected a seat in the back row when Jim felt for Spock's zipper and slipped a hand inside his pants. Jim buzzed with nervous energy—it bled through like shockwaves of electric blue—and it was exciting. Spock's heart raced, and while he knew Jim's actions to be grossly inappropriate, he did nothing more than lean his head back against the seat and exhale quietly.

"This okay?" Jim asked, leaning over to breathe into Spock's ear. It was certainly not, as Jim had phrased it, "okay." If they were discovered, they could both face censure or discharge from Starfleet. Spock would return to Vulcan in shame. They should wait to touch one another until they had returned to Jim's apartment, where they had a guarantee of privacy.

But this was not Vulcan. Spock was on Earth, in the company of a human who desired his presence. That human was touching him intimately, and Spock did not want him to stop. There was no one around to see. In response, he shifted his hips, pressing himself up into Jim's hand, and shuddered when Jim's fingers wrapped around him. Jim pulled Spock's genitals free of his pants and stroked slowly. He rested his head against Spock's shoulder, his eyes trained on the screen. Occasionally, he mouthed the dialogue, but his hand never stopped moving.

In his heightened state of arousal, Spock became aware of the light apple scent of Jim's hair, the callous between his fourth and fifth fingers. It created additional friction as Jim tightened his grip. A tingling sensation began in Spock's toes and began to crawl upward into his calves. Spock tightened his abdominal muscles and suppressed a moan.

"Jim," he whispered. His voice sounded thick and breathy. "I am...if you continue to move your hand in this manner..."

"I want you to come for me," Jim murmured and dipped his head.

Spock had learned (through a misunderstanding with his first-year roommate regarding the presence of a rubber band on the door handle) that some humans engage in sexual contact which involves the mouth. The act was unsanitary and held no appeal for Spock, who felt panic and disgust when Jim's lips encircled him. But when Jim swiped his tongue over the head of Spock's penis, and Spock achieved orgasm in Jim's mouth, he reconsidered his opinion.

"You are so hot," Jim whispered, kissing Spock as he tucked him away. Spock spent the remainder of the film's running time memorizing the pattern of Jim's heart beat. He replayed it that night, as he fell asleep in his own apartment.

***

"You look wonderful," his mother said as they rode the short distance from the dock station to the Vulcan embassy. She wore Terran clothes, a jacket and dark pants, and had her hair loose over her shoulders. Spock sat stiffly beside his father, who raised an eyebrow at his wife.

"I believe you mean to say he appears well," Sarek said.

"Always so literal," she replied and reached across the space between them to pat his leg. It was something she had often done in private when Spock was a child. She was a Vulcan wife in public, but she was very much human in her own space.

"I am well," Spock offered.

"So," she said, smiling and leaning back in the seat. "Anything new since the last time we talked?"

Spock ticked off several items in his head: he had sampled Italian food, taught five lectures, replied to eighteen messages from students, kissed with his mouth, and begun having sexual intercourse with Jim. He selected the least shocking to report.

"I have discovered a dish called eggplant lasagna," he said.

"We'll have to try it," his mother said and narrowed her eyes. "Who convinced you to eat Italian?"

Spock sensed his father pull up into his shoulders. This was not the time or place to reveal his relationship. "A friend," he said carefully and watched his mother's face soften.

"A _special_ friend?" she inquired. Spock fought to retain a neutral expression. She had often made such inquiries since Spock had moved to Earth. He did not pretend to misunderstand her meaning.

Jim was indeed special. He was Spock's, and Spock did not want to speak Jim's name to his parents, did not even want them to see his likeness. If they never knew about Jim, they could never speak against him. Vulcans did not lie, but Spock was adept at constructing oblique answers. He was prepared to say that by definition, all friends were special, when Sarek spoke.

"Spock is bonded," he said. The words hung heavy in the space between them.

"Of course," Amanda replied smoothly, but Spock felt something in his stomach knot when her expression soured. He knew she desired a choice for him in his relationship, as she had enjoyed. "I don't suppose you've had a chance to see T'Pring," she continued.

"No," Spock answered.

"Have the two of you spoken lately?"

"Mother," Spock began when the car pulled up alongside the curb and lowered to the ground. Sarek exited first and extended a arm to Spock's mother. Spock raised an eyebrow as she took it, but she held it only as long as it took to climb out of the car. Spock followed.

"I must see to a few items at the embassy," Sarek said, motioning to the gate.

"If you don't mind," Amanda said, "I'm going to walk with Spock back to his apartment."

"There is no need for you to accompany me," Sarek said. "I will meet you when I an through here."

"Fine," she said and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Spock stared at his father as he passed through the gates and up the steps to the embassy. He looked back to his mother, who appeared satisfied, then motioned in the direction they should walk.

"I trust your trip was uneventful?" Spock asked.

"Long and tedious as ever," she said with a laugh. He had never seen his mother in such casual clothing, looking as content as she did walking down the sidewalk with him. She flashed him a smile. "So you're seeing someone."

He cleared his throat.

"Do I get a name?" she prompted. When he did not answer after four seconds, she added, "I'm not going to tell your father, if that's what you're wondering. Is it serious?"

"Yes," Spock answered.

"If you want to dissolve your bond with T'Pring, I won't object."

"The only way to break the bond is through the _kal-if-fee_."

"You know that's not true," she said. "Vulcans are fond of their rituals, but any bond can be broken with a healer, especially a preliminary one."

"Father would be displeased."

"And so would I, if you had the chance to marry for love and turned it down because you're afraid of what your father will think."

Spock considered his mother's words as they waited to cross the street. He listened to the low hum of a transport shuttle overhead, of the wind brushing the buildings which rose up all around them.

"It is just another block," he said. They walked quietly until they had reached the entry door to his building, and Spock stood in front of the scanner.

"Welcome," the scanner said, and the door opened.

They took the lift to the seventh floor, where Spock stood before a second scanner that allowed entrance to his apartment. He ushered his mother inside and watched her remove her jacket and fling it casually onto the kitchen counter.

"This is nice," she said, sinking onto an armchair in the living room.

"Would you like something to drink?" he offered.

"Water," she said.

He went into the kitchen and poured them both a glass. He returned and sat opposite from her on the couch. She drank and watched him over the rim. He felt like a specimen and wondered if she could sense something of Jim on him. He had finger-shaped bruises on his hips and inner thighs, but they were not visible through his clothing. Still, he felt each one clearly, as if Jim had branded himself into Spock's skin. He flushed.

"The sooner you break it, the better," his mother said and slung an arm around the back of the chair.

Spock nodded, but they didn't speak of Jim any more.

***

Soren and T'Pring met them for a late dinner at the same Italian restaurant where Jim had ordered takeout. Amanda had suggested it, crediting Spock for the idea. He scowled at his comm as he wrote Jim to say that he would be unable to meet him, angled away from his mother so she could not read the screen. Jim's reply was only seven words and lacked punctuation: "no problem have fun with your parents." Spock considered that Jim might be upset, but there was nothing he could do. He could not leave the table and go to Jim's apartment simply because that was what he wanted. He had duties to his family and to his wife, who sat across from him. He tucked his comm in the pocket of the formal robes he had worn for the occasion and addressed her.

"I understand you are overseeing the development of a pilot recognition system."

"Yes," she replied. She met his eyes.

She was greatly changed from their last meeting as children, a woman. Her dark hair was plaited and secured low on her head in a modest style. Her face had lost the chubbiness of youth. She possessed fine cheekbones, a slim nose, lips which were red and just parted. She was beautiful, and Spock did not want her.

"You plan to go to space," she said.

"I do."

"He's going to be a legend," Amanda said proudly and smiled at the server as he refilled their glasses. Spock could tell from the brush of T'Pring's mind against his own that she did not approve of this idea.

"Am I to be the consort of a legend?" she asked sharply.

"You will be what you wish," Spock said without looking at her, though he could sense her gratitude.

She spoke with him as they left the restaurant two hours later. They walked several feet in front of their parents, who conversed quietly.

"Forgive me if I caused offense," she said.

"You did not," he assured her.

"May I speak plainly?"

"I would prefer you did."

"Our marriage customs are antiquated," she declared. "I accept that you and I will bond permanently. However, I would have preferred a choice."

It was not what he had expected her to say. He felt a sudden fondness for her.

"I share your opinion."

"Do you?" she asked and raised an eyebrow. He felt her stir his mental energy and detected a slight curve of her lips. "I wonder if our like-mindedness is what made our parents pair us as children, or if it is an aftereffect of the bond."

"Ah," Spock said. "There is a Terran riddle regarding the chicken and the egg, inquiring as to which must have come first."

"A childish riddle," she mused, "but not inapplicable."

They parted at the embassy. T'Pring expressed that she looked forward to the consortium the following evening. They did not touch fingers, but she nodded at him politely. He bid his father goodnight; Amanda insisted on hugging him.

"My planet, my rules," she whispered. "I'll call you about breakfast."

He was relieved that his parents opted to stay at the embassy rather than with him, though he had offered to allow them the use of his bed. He did not relish the idea of another night alone and wondered what Jim was doing, if Spock should message him or if Jim would already be asleep. His comm read 23:01. The walk to his apartment would take fifteen minutes. If he walked to Jim's apartment to say hello, he would be persuaded to stay. He would persuade himself.

No, he decided. He would go home, and he would sleep. He would see Jim once his parents had left town. They would only be apart for six days. He would bear it. What choice did he have? He took in little of his surroundings as he approached the building, though he noted a homeless man curled up below the scanner. He frowned and waved a hand to activate it, then bent to contribute to the man's credit chip. The man lifted his head, and his face split into a grin.

"Hey," Jim said sleepily. "I had dinner at Pike's and figured I'd stop by on my way home. Did your folks get in okay?"

"They did," Spock said and extended a hand to help Jim to his feet. "How long have you been sitting here?"

"Not too long," Jim said and yawned. "Maybe ten minutes. If you didn't come home in the next few, I was going to catch a cab."

"Come inside," Spock said and held the door for Jim. Jim leaned against him in the lift and kissed his shoulder. When they were inside the apartment, Spock pushed a hand into Jim's hair and kissed him on the mouth.

"Guess you're not mad at me for just showing up like this," Jim whispered.

"I am gratified that you wished to see me," Spock said.

"Your parents won't be around tonight, will they?"

"They are staying at the embassy."

"Let's get naked," Jim suggested, and Spock was happy to comply. He reached for the hem of Jim's shirt, but Jim shook his head and backed away toward the bedroom. He moved deliberately, catlike, sure-footed as he peeled off his own shirt. He never broke eye contact. Spock's mouth began to water (curious) when Jim unzipped his pants as he reached the bedroom door and stepped out of them.

"Coming?" Jim asked, and Spock was all too aware of the double meaning. He followed readily, reaching for Jim again only to have his hands slapped away before Jim pushed his briefs down.

"Am I not supposed to touch you?" Spock asked, confused.

"You get to watch," Jim told him and climbed onto the bed.

He reclined against the headboard and began to stroke himself. Spock's heart rate increased by a percentage he could not calculate, because he was enthralled by the sight of Jim spread out, his neck and chest flushed pink. He had never desired to see another man touch himself and was surprised to find it erotic. He removed his own clothing and stood at the foot of the bed, directly in front of Jim, who met his eyes. Jim's breathing sounded heavy. Spock wanted to bite his lips.

He placed a hand on the bed beside Jim's feet, then the other. Jim didn't protest, but continued to work himself, moaning faintly. Encouraged, Spock gradually crawled up the length of Jim's body until he was astride his hips. He welcomed the flood of images that came from touching Jim's skin and selected the one of his fist surrounding both of them. He mimicked what he saw in Jim's head, pushing Jim's hand away. Jim allowed this, moving his hand to rest on Spock's thigh. The other trailed lightly across his own chest.

" _Vaksurik_ ," Spock whispered, and Jim's stomach hollowed out as he arched up, his ribs pressing against his skin as he moaned.

When Jim lay asleep curled up with a head on Spock's shoulder, Spock contemplated the strange flavor that lingered in his mouth, simultaneously salty and bitter. His lips and tongue felt numbed. It was not unpleasant. Rather, Spock hoped they would repeat such acts frequently. He kissed Jim's hair, breathed in against it, and fell asleep.

***

Spock was roused by a tone at the front door. He was not expecting any visitors. Jim was still asleep, half snoring and turned away from Spock, though their ankles overlapped. Spock took a moment to run a hand over the curve of Jim's spine, kiss the base of his neck, before he stood up and pulled on a robe. He walked to the door monitor, expecting to see a delivery person. It was his mother. He inhaled sharply and cursed in Golic, leaning against the wall. He had hoped to avoid this. He ran through his options.

He could not leave his mother on the sidewalk. However, he was not going to insist Jim leave. Jim might remain sleeping, but what if he woke up? He would question why Spock did not allow him to meet his mother if Spock insisted he remain in the bedroom. The only option was to confess to his mother and allow them to meet. He stepped into view and watched her face bloom into a smile.

"Morning," she said and held up a takeout bag. "You didn't answer your comm, so I brought breakfast."

He nodded and pressed the place on the screen to allow her entrance, then went to brush his teeth. He covered Jim in a blanket and willed him to remain sleeping, but Jim sniffed and rolled onto his back.

"Hey," he said groggily.

"My mother will be here at any moment," Spock said and smoothed the hair from Jim's forehead.

"Oh, man. Okay," Jim said, blinking while he absorbed this information. "I need a shower. And clean clothes."

"You may borrow anything of mine that you wish."

Jim beamed at him. "Thanks," he said. "Um. I'll be out in a little bit?"

Spock nodded and went to wait for his mother by the door, smoothing his hair when he caught sight of himself in the hall mirror. She knocked four times in rapid succession.

"Mother," he greeted her and took the bag from her hand, carrying it into the living room. He set it on the low table before the couch and indicated she should sit.

"Your father is in meetings all morning," she said. "I thought we could spend the day together, if you aren't too busy."

He did not hold lecture on Friday, and it was not unheard of for a professor to cancel office hours, though he had never done so.

"That would be acceptable," he said. She smiled and began to root through the bag, laying out a few napkins. On them she deposited two pastries and a fruit cup.

"Thought I might be able to tempt you," she said and motioned to the croissant. "But I brought the fruit just in case."

The shower came on just then, an unmistakable sound of running water. Jim was human and preferred water showers, and he had commented that Spock's water pressure was "awesome." Spock's brain played for him an image of Jim naked. Spock struggled to keep his face neutral and reached for the fruit cup.

"I will get us forks," he said when he realized the bakery had not provided any. His mother raised both eyebrows.

"Who's in the shower?" she asked.

He sighed heavily. "A friend," he said.

"Is this the friend who introduced you to Italian?"

There was no benefit to obfuscation. She would find out about Jim as soon as he entered the room. "It is," he replied hoarsely.

"Does this person have a name?"

"Jim," Spock replied.

"Well," she said and took up her own croissant. " _Jim_ can have the other one."

She said no more about it until Jim emerged from the bedroom, smelling like Spock's soap, dressed in one of Spock's tunics and dark pants, barefooted in Spock's apartment. Spock filled with pride just looking at him. Jim licked his lips as he approached, and his eyes darted between the space beside Spock and the unoccupied chair. Spock made the decision for him by sliding over. Jim sat down.

"You must be Jim," she said. "I'm Amanda."

"Ma'am," he said and stuck out a hand. "It's nice to meet you."

They shook. When Jim sat back, he leaned into Spock's shoulder.

"Well, this is a surprise," she said.

"A good surprise?" Jim asked uncertainly.

"Yes," she said. "But definitely a surprise. How did the two of you meet?"

"Jim and I met at a poetry reading," Spock said. "We both instruct at the academy."

"I'm in my third year," Jim added, "but I teach a couple classes."

"How do you find the time?" she asked.

"Insomnia," Jim said with a grin. Spock turned to him.

"I was unaware you experienced trouble sleeping," he said.

"Well," Jim said and nudged him. "Not so much lately."

Spock smiled at the implication. He relaxed as his mother began to question Jim about his coarse load. Soon, the two were speaking in an animated fashion. Jim made coffee for them both, then checked the time and said he had to run.

"Tactics lecture," he said and shouldered his bag. "See you tonight?"

"I will be there," Spock assured him.

Amanda turned to Spock after Jim left and said, "I like him. He's good for you. Have you told him about T'Pring?"

Spock shook his head.

"It's your choice," she continued, "but if I were Jim, I'd rather hear about her now than in a few years—or tonight."

"There is no guarantee that my relationship with Jim will be long term," Spock said, though to say the words out loud made his stomach ache. It was likely psychosomatic. He inhaled deeply.

"He's in love with you," she said. "It's written all over his face."

"He might prove unwilling to partake in certain Vulcan customs," Spock said vaguely and fussed with the edge of his sleeve. Amanda rolled her eyes.

"That didn't scare me off," she said, "and he's physically stronger than I am."

Spock grimaced at the image of his parents engaged in a sexual act. Amanda laughed.

"Imagine how I felt when the shower started."

***

Spock suggested a structured afternoon planned around museum visits, but Amanda declared a lazy day in the city was best. They strolled the waterfront and made a brief stop on campus so Spock could leave a note on his office door. In the end, Spock decided against cancelling his office hours when he discovered that Amanda had tracked down Jim and was conversing with him in the cafeteria. Spock met with three students who had questions about proper use of the subjunctive tense, the topic of his last lecture. His mother found him in his office, reading from his padd. She had Jim in tow.

"Guess who's joining us for lunch?" she said cheerfully. "Jim said he knows a great pizza place."

"It's that one Pike likes," Jim said to Spock, who nodded.

They shared a plain cheese pizza and a pitcher of beer, though Spock opted to drink only water. He had been to this restaurant on three occasions with Captain Pike and Number One. The pizza was no higher quality than establishments located closer to their residence, yet they insisted there was something about the ambiance which made Pi the better choice. Spock found the name ridiculous (humans believed themselves far more clever than reality), though he agreed there was something pleasing about the dim interior, dotted with tea candles, tables spread in red and white checkered cloth.

Jim kept a hand on Spock's leg while they ate. Spock's mother had insisted they sit together. He smiled up at Spock adoringly and even wiped sauce from the corner of Spock's mouth, letting his thumb linger. Spock knew it could not be true, yet time seemed to freeze for a moment. What would it be like to meld with Jim? Would it feel like this, as though Spock existed apart from his body?

He remembered that his mother was present and stiffened, but she looked approving of his behavior. She was listening to Jim talk with a closed-mouth smile, and it deepened every time Jim performed an affectionate act toward Spock. Fascinating. He tested this theory by daring to touch Jim once, by allowing their fingers to overlap when Jim passed him a napkin. Spock held his breath, awaiting her reaction. She responded by inviting Jim for a two-month stay on Vulcan.

***

Spock returned home to shower and change for the consortium. He arrived at the embassy with an hour to spare and escorted his parents to Starfleet Academy. He was relieved that T'Pring and her father planned to travel separately. They would sit together, he supposed, but perhaps the evening would not be as stressful as he had imagined.

Upon entering the largest conference room, which had been set up with circular banquet tables that seated ten people each, Spock scanned the room for two specific individuals. He located Jim, who was speaking with Number One and had not seen him enter. Jim was striking in his red uniform. It made his cheeks appear flushed. He had styled his hair; it was pushed back from his forehead. He held himself with deliberate poise.

T'Pring stood on the opposite side of the room, in front of a table laid with wine glasses and bottles containing different varietals of wine. She appeared to peruse the offerings and speak to the bartender. Spock heard someone approach; he smelled Jim's cologne before he saw him.

"Hey, there you are," Jim said, touching Spock on the shoulder and turning him so they faced one another. He kept his hand on Spock's shoulder and held a beer in the other. "I've been looking all over for you."

"I apologize," Spock said quickly, stepping away when he saw T'Pring receive a glass of wine and start in their direction.

"Do you have a seat yet?" Jim asked.

"I am sitting with my father," Spock answered.

"Oh, of course," Jim said and smiled though he shook his head. Spock supposed he was embarrassed to have forgotten. "Guess I'll sit with Pike then."

He continued to stare at Spock and smile for another three point four seconds. If he had not, if he had walked away as soon as he was finished speaking, T'Pring would not have reached them in time. But she came to stand between them and gave Jim a small nod.

"Hello," she said.

"Oh, hey. We haven't met," he said and raised his hand in greeting. "I'm Jim Kirk. I'm friends with Spock."

"We have not met, as I live on Vulcan. I am T'Pring." Her tone was flat yet amicable. Illogically, Spock held his breath and hoped she would not continue, but she did. "I am his wife."

To cringe served no purpose, yet Spock wished nothing more than to curl into himself on the floor. He fixed his gaze on Jim, who blinked twice. His smile widened, but the sentiment that should accompany such an expression was absent from his eyes. They hardened as he turned to Spock.

"Wife?" Jim repeated. The word sounded ugly coming from his mouth. He took a swig of beer and swallowed, wiping his mouth on his jacket sleeve. "Shit, man. How come you never told me? Congratulations."

"Jim—"

"You know, I think I'd better grab a seat," Jim continued, motioning over his shoulder with a thumb. When he turned back to Spock, Jim did not quite meet his eyes. "Tables are filling up."

"I will call you this evening," Spock promised.

"Oh," Jim said flippantly. "Don't worry about it."

He smiled again, tipped his beer toward T'Pring, and walked away without saying goodbye. Spock lowered his head to his chest and breathed in deeply to keep his eyebrows from furrowing. There was a strange feeling in his chest, a heaviness. He wished to take a fist to it and beat it out of himself.

"Ah," T'Pring said knowingly once Jim was out of hearing range. She raised her wineglass to her lips and drank before continuing. "So _that_ is Jim."

He looked at her sharply. "How do you know about him?"

"Your shielding techniques could be improved," she replied. "He is displeased with you. You should not have lied to him."

"I did not lie," Spock defended, though his face grew hot.

"You did not inform him of our situation," she pointed out and drank again.

They sat at a table with Spock's parents, Soren, and five visiting members from the Vulcan Science Academy. The five of them spoke among themselves and did not address Spock, except during introductions. Spock told himself he did not mind and focused his attention on the keynote speaker, a professor from the Vulcan Science Academy who would have instructed Spock had he not declined admission. His mind was magnificent, capable of understanding the cosmos. He deserved Spock's full attention.

Jim looked at Spock seventeen times throughout the evening, but every time Spock met his eyes, Jim looked away. From a covert position beneath the table, Spock sent him a comm message. He knew that Jim received it, because he saw his gaze dart to his lap, but he did not write back. Instead, he turned his attention to a young man seated to his left, with dark hair and narrowed eyes. He looked to be Jim's age and also wore a red cadet uniform. Jim touched his bicep twice. The man touched Jim in return and leaned in once to speak into his ear. It made Jim laugh. Spock felt his cheeks burn.

"Did you and Jim have a fight?" his mother asked conspiratorially. She had just returned to the table, having gotten up for a wine refill. "I told him he's welcome to come and sit with us, but he said he didn't want to intrude. He'd hardly look me in the eye."

"He met T'Pring," Spock said.

"I figured as much," she said and tapped her fingers against the side of her glass. "I'm guessing that means he knows that she's your—"

"He does," Spock said, cutting her off. It was unforgivable to disrespect his mother this way, but he did not want to hear the word from her mouth too. "He would not allow me to explain further. I plan to speak with him later tonight."

"I see," his mother said.

But Jim did not return his messages that evening. He did not come by Spock's apartment. Spock hugged a pillow to his chest and breathed in what remained of Jim's scent. He left his comm on the nightstand, staring at it, as if in doing so he could will Jim to contact him. His last message had been a request for Jim to call. Spock had not offered an explanation. Jim deserved to learn the truth in person, so Spock could be certain he did not misunderstand.

Over breakfast, Amanda gave Spock a long, calculating look but did not offer judgment.

"You'll find a way to apologize," she said and asked him to pass the butter. She spread it liberally on a triangle of toast. He watched her consume it with apparent satisfaction but felt no drive to eat. She pushed the basket of toast toward him. He ate two pieces out of obligation, spread only with marmalade, and hardly discerned the flavor.

***

The next five days passed with infuriating sluggishness, which was illogical. Yet Spock was convinced each day was, in fact, longer than the twenty-four Terran hours his chrono allowed. Each minute that he did not hear from Jim seemed to stretch to infinity, an impossible length of time that made his emotions roil and caused his insides to twist from the deprivation of Jim's company.

Jim was human, but he was intelligent, and surely he understood that Spock must explain? Surely he was aware of the differences between their cultures? Earth had once been a place of many arranged marriages, not so very long ago in its history. Surely Jim could not doubt Spock's affection for him?

Jim did not contact him. He was absent from the cafeteria at lunch time on Monday, though Spock spotted him in the hallway twice. He thought of calling out Jim's name, forcing him to acknowledge Spock, seeing as they were in public. Spock outranked him; Jim would have no choice but to respond if Spock addressed him as a cadet. He did not. He allowed Jim to slip from his field of vision, and it caused an ache in his head.

"If you wish to dissolve our bond, I will raise no objection," T'Pring offered as they walked along the waterfront the evening before she left.

"Jim will not have me," Spock answered plainly.

"He resonates with you," she said, "in a way I do not. I do not understand it, and yet I find I wish that for myself."

"You would make an excellent partner," he told her.

"I plan to," she said and allowed the ghost of a smile.

"What will your father say?" Spock asked, looking at her sideways. She lifted her chin.

"He will say it is my choice. It is logical that we make this decision now, rather than wait until there is no time, and a life must be lost. I will speak to the council upon my return to Vulcan."

"It is not our way," Spock said uncertainly.

"Perhaps it should be," she said. "I will inform you of their decision."

***

His parents prepared to leave on Wednesday morning. Spock spent the morning at the embassy while they packed, seated in the meditation garden. He folded his hands on his lap and listened to the rhythm of falling water that originated from the large, square fountain in the center of the garden. On Vulcan, water was such a scarce resource that it was illogical to use it for sensory pleasure; but on Earth where it was abundant, Spock luxuriated in the sound.

T'Pring found him there forty-eight minutes later. She roused him with a hand on his shoulder.

"It is time," she said.

He brushed her mind affectionately, and she dipped her chin a fraction. She allowed him to feel her pleasure at his action. They sat together in the car, and when they parted in front of the dock station, she raised a hand to his, spread in the ta'al. He pressed his palm to hers. It could be interpreted as a gesture between romantic partners, but Spock knew it was a goodbye between friends. 

"I believe the appropriate term is _good luck_ ," she said and departed.

Spock bid his father farewell and hugged his mother. She kissed his cheek and pressed something into his hand. It was a book of Terran poetry. "For your collection," she said. He thanked her and wished that she live long and prosper.

Upon returning home, he deposited the book face down in a drawer where he could not see it.

***

After two weeks of silence, Spock ceased his appeals. They had tapered to one per day for the last five days. He wondered if Jim read them, or if he removed them from his comm as soon as they arrived. Perhaps he was not receiving them at all and had added Spock to a list of prohibited contacts. The idea unsettled him.

Spock considered that he might catch Jim outside of a classroom. It was the first day of the new semester, so he accessed Jim's schedule. Jim should be in lecture room A in Archer Hall until 0930. Spock did not begin teaching until 0945 in the same building. He calculated it would take two minutes to walk from lecture room A to his classroom, which gave him a thirteen-minute window. He stood at a polite distance from the room's main set of double doors, figuring that if Jim saw him and did not wish to speak with him, he would not feel pressured to do so. Spock intended his appearance to be an appeal, not a threat.

Thirteen blond male students exited the room, but Jim was not among them. When the trickle of students had ceased, Spock surveyed the lecture room only to find it empty. Jim must have used the other exit, which led to the corridor that connected the building with the campus medical clinic. He thought of Jim's roommate, pictured his sour expression. It would be preferable to avoid him, but since McCoy lived with Jim and presumably saw him daily, Spock decided speaking to him was an option. There was no time now, however. It was 0943 hours, and he was due in his own classroom.

He walked there briskly and arrived precisely at 0945 hours. He began to speak without looking at the cadets seated in the room. With his hands clasped behind his back, he introduced himself and pointed out the grading scale in his syllabus. It was when he asked if there were questions that he finally looked up and saw the young man in the second row.

Spock recognized him instantly from the consortium. He was the same young man who had sat next to Jim, touched his arm, and made him laugh. Spock felt the sensation in his stomach, like he had been punched. He clenched his jaw and began to take questions, careful to avoid the young man's piercing gaze.

In the privacy of his office, Spock tapped his screen to access the seating log based on PADDs recently synced with the board, and determined that the young man's name was Gary Mitchell. Another tap revealed his record. He was human, twenty-four, command track—an excellent student based on his academic record and aptitude scores. Two years earlier, he had filed a report against Dr. Leonard McCoy for assault. Spock's eyebrow raised at the name, so he read further. The case had gone in front of the academic review board and was ultimately dismissed. The matter was determined to be personal in nature and had occurred in private, off campus. Spock tried to access the hearing transcript, but it was locked by Christopher Pike. Spock frowned. Surely an altercation between students, especially one that had been dismissed, would not merit such a measure? He glanced at the witness list instead and understood when he saw the only name listed: Kirk, James. T.

He recalled a quip Jim had made the third occasion Spock had stayed over at his apartment, about someone named Gary still possessing an extra bedroom. McCoy had not found humor in the statement, and he had gone on to deem Spock a more suitable partner than whomever Jim had seen previously. Spock brought up Jim's record. It revealed that his first year at the academy, he lived in an apartment subsidized by Starfleet for eight months, then changed his address to that of his current residence. A similar search revealed that Gary Mitchell had lived at Jim's former address for the entire three years he had been enlisted.

Spock felt unbalanced, his equilibrium thrown off. He set down the PADD and began to meditate. His office was not an ideal location. T'Vei might come in at any time. Still, he bowed his head and began to count backwards, until his mind calmed, and he was able to organize his thoughts. He had always found it beneficial to compartmentalize them, to imagine them stored away in neat rows, stacked decades high. He accessed his memories of Jim and stored this information with them. In the box beside Jim's he placed the memory of Gary's hand on Jim's arm. A touch proved nothing, nor did a former address. Whatever their relationship had been, it was no guarantee that Jim would return to it. Spock comforted himself with that thought and gradually withdrew from his memories, until he was once again staring at his desk and bare office walls. Thoughts of Jim were safely tucked away, where they were less poignant. He gathered his belongings and went to purchase a light lunch.

It was when Spock was situating himself at a table by the window that he saw Jim. He was sitting in the center of the room with another man. The man's back was to Spock, but he could tell the identity from the dark hair and width of the man's shoulders. Jim did not touch him, but he smiled, and Spock presumed that Gary smiled back. Spock could hear the bray of his laughter.

As a child, Spock had witnessed his mother cry when he refused a birthday gift at six years of age. He had never cried himself, had felt only the pin-prick sting in both eyes before rage overtook him and he let loose with his fists. He felt no anger now, only a melancholy which drained him of what energy he had. But his eyes stung as before. When he blinked, moisture blurred his vision before the skim of tears evaporated. Perhaps it was the sunlight through the window that had caused them. It was bright today.

He ate without looking up from his plate again, and he left without looking behind him. If Jim no longer wished to speak with him, Spock would respect that.


	3. Chapter 3

When Spock returned to his apartment that evening, he stripped the sheets from his bed and laundered them, along with the throw from the living room couch. He wiped down every hard surface and opened the windows to air out the space, removing any lingering traces of Jim. It did not matter that Spock had changed his sheets four times since Jim last slept here. Spock could still smell him on every item, trapped in folds of fabric, seemingly infused into Spock's very senses.

While the washing machine completed its cycle, Spock lit a stick of incense and settled on the floor in his bedroom to meditate. During his regular meditation sessions, it took mere seconds, perhaps one minute at the longest, before he slid into his mental landscape. Tonight, he was unable to still his mind. He rested his hands on his lap, gently folded together, and focused on his breathing. It came in unsteady gasps. He tightened his abdominal muscles and imagined his spine lengthening, concentrated on the alignment of his vertebrae. It did not help. He was unable to slip under.

He closed his eyes and conjured Vulcan: its arid red landscape, its enveloping heat. He imagined inhaling the hot air, capturing that warmth in his lungs and holding it within himself. He felt the desert winds that sweep across Vulcan's Forge, across the city, to the outskirts where Spock's family home stood. He beheld an image of his parents on the balcony, turned away from him. He stepped forward, but the balcony crumbled beneath his feet, and he was falling, falling—

He opened his eyes, afraid to close them again. That was illogical. What he had seen was a product of his imagination. He was clearly tired and required sleep. He studied the wall, let his eyes linger on the visible brush strokes that ran parallel to the window frame. He had never taken them into account before. Now, they leaped out at him, as if they had been lying in wait, brush strokes infuriatingly obvious, created by a sloppy hand. Spock was ashamed that he had not noticed them before tonight, nor had he noticed the nail hole someone had not quite covered, sixteen inches from the top of the window. The paint around the window was dull white; the walls had a higher sheen. He had never acknowledged this either and continued to stare, blinking only when his eyes became uncomfortably dry.

He stared at the wall for thirty-three minutes, certain that he had discovered four different shades of white in the paint. They were not merely shadows. His eyes were heavy when he rose, steadying himself with a hand on the dresser until the dizziness passed. The washing machine had stopped churning.

Spock deftly made his bed and folded the towels, putting them away in the narrow closet just outside the bathroom. He changed for bed and switched off the lights, lying prone and staring out the window at the moon. The moon did not stare back; it was a lifeless celestial body. It governed the waves without knowledge or intent. Spock knew this, yet he felt anger at the sight of it, and turned his back to the window. He lay unsleeping for nine minutes, four seconds, and turned the light back on.

If he could not meditate and could not sleep, perhaps he should read. With this in mind he got out of bed, moving into the living room. With his eyes averted, he drew the curtains. He prepared a cup of tea and sat on the couch with a PADD in hand, but his eyes strayed from the screen. He was obviously more exhausted than he thought; why couldn't he sleep? Perhaps it was the change in season. It was nearly autumn. Spock had overheard his students complain that days were growing shorter. That was inaccurate. Each Earth day contained the same number of minutes; it was the amount of daylight that diminished. Spock considered that the change in available light might be affecting his body's rhythms. He lay his PADD aside.

When Spock was nine, he had been unable to sleep because of a disturbance at school. His mother had prepared bread and warm milk, and she had read poetry out loud to him until he settled. There was no harm in trying, he reasoned. He replicated a steaming cup of milk and hovered his fingers over the controls for, intending to order a hunk of bread to accompany it. He punched in the command for cake instead. Spock was an adult, after all. He was alone in his apartment. If he wished to consume refined sugar, that was his business. He replicated an eight-inch round cake with no frosting.

He sat with the cake and a fork on the living room floor, his cheek propped against a fist, and chewed without satisfaction. He did not like cake, he remembered as he took a second bite. It was pleasantly lemon flavored but heavy with butter, and it left a slick coating on his teeth. He grimaced and chased it away with milk. He switched on the vid system and switched mindlessly between selections, pausing less than a second on each—it was hardly a suitable amount of time upon which to judge each program, but he found he had no desire to observe any—before flicking to the next. He paused when he glimpsed a familiar scene: a crowded bar, a caucasian Terran man in a white jacket, the pleasant tinkering of a piano. He groaned when he recognized it as the movie Jim had taken him to see, and though it was the height of illogic, he watched the remainder of its running time and consumed the rest of his cake.

The chirp of his communicator surprised him. It was late to be receiving calls. He crossed the room with the assistance of obliging, steady furniture and fetched it from its charging dock on the kitchen counter. It chirped again, indicating an incoming communication.

"Spock here," he said.

"This is T'Pring."

He blinked to clear away his confusion. "Hello," he said.

"Are you unwell?" she asked.

"I am unable to sleep."

"I am aware. Your meditation was not sufficient."

"I am attempting to use alternative methods of relaxation," Spock explained.

"You must shield him," she said. Her words were not unkind. Spock knew they were intended to help. What T'Pring said was logical, yet he felt anger flare up in him, bright and sharp like fangs. He ground his teeth.

There was a compassionate breeze through his mental landscape. He imagined them sitting together within it.

"Will you allow me to assist you?" she asked. She wore a dress like pearls.

He did not answer immediately.

"His memory brings you pain," she continued. "Surely it is logical to—"

"Yes," Spock agreed. "It is."

"Allow me," she repeated. He nodded to his lap slowly.

Spock discerned the brush of phantom fingers aligning with his meld points, a momentary flicker of intense longing, and then—

He sat straighter and inhaled deeply. The ache was concealed, and Spock no longer felt held by it. T'Pring's hand came away.

"Your assistance is appreciated," he said. She was standing up now, faced away from him. Spock got to his feet as the landscape began to fade, and he was again in his apartment with his communicator held to his ear.

"Sleep," T'Pring instructed him.

"Live long and prosper," Spock wished her sincerely.

"Peace and long life," she replied softly and disconnected the call.

***

**Three months, 5 days later**

**December 4, 2257**

T'Pring wrote to inform Spock that the council was willing to sever their bond. Spock accepted the news with relief and apprehension. He was pleased for her, but he would soon be unbonded. _There is time_ , he consoled himself, which was a partial truth. Once Spock was assigned to a ship, the pool of potential bondmates diminished. On a ship of 400 crewmembers, Spock estimated the majority would be human, since humans comprised the bulk of Starfleet. It would be illogical to expect to find another unbonded Vulcan. Vulcans did not typically sever bonds. Spock had only heard of it occurring due to the _kal-if-fee_ or death.

He stared at T'Pring's message and wondered if the news had reached his father. He had not asked for Sarek's opinion.

He would shield his fear, as he shielded his fondness for Jim. Spock occasionally saw him on campus but felt little in response. Gary Mitchell was just another student in his class. He had not seen them together since their lunch in the cafeteria. Spock's days were satisfying: he woke at 0530 for stretching and calisthenics, ate a light breakfast, dressed, and read or answered messages until it was time to leave for work. Now that he did not waste his evenings engaged in frivolous behavior, Spock gained an average of three hours, twenty-one minutes that he used to study. Lunch became quotidian, requiring no more than ten minutes to consume a plate of salad and exit the cafeteria. He often ate in his office, where he could read in relative quiet. He was not, as T'Vei had accused, avoiding anyone. It was practical.

He raised his mental shields fully around the area where his bond resided. T'Pring said in her communication that a healer would see her safely through severance. Spock would likely be aware of the bond's absence, but as long as he kept his shields intact, the side effects would be minimal.

It would be done immediately, her message concluded. She was nothing if not efficient. He imagined her lying on her back with her face neutral, a healer's wrinkled hand resting along her meld points. He wondered if it would hurt, if he would feel physical pain or know the exact moment when her mind no longer touched his.

_Always and never, touching and touched._

The ancient words held no meaning for him now. He considered that T'Pring had not expressed concern at the prospect of being unbonded. Perhaps she had already selected another mate, though Spock had never sensed a connection to someone else. Of course, she had always been more adept at constructing mental shields.

He would think no more about this right now. He was due to instruct advanced phonology in three minutes, twenty-two seconds and would not be on time if he did not leave his office immediately. He took his PADD and proceeded to the lecture hall. As the students filed in, he synced his lecture notes with the board, brought up the first page, and collapsed to the floor.

***

"Commander?"

A hand curved over his shoulder, shaking him gently. After a matter of seconds, Cadet Uhura's face came into focus. Were his eyes open? He supposed they must be, if he was able to look at her. Her mouth was tight, but her eyes were wide. He heard the shuffle of bodies and realized that they were not alone. He was...in his a lecture hall. He must have lost consciousness. He brought a hand to his forehead and rubbed two of his meld points, aware of a distant throbbing, like an echo of pain. _It must be broken_ , he thought.

Uhura helped him to a sitting position, but Spock refused her arm when he stood up.

"Thank you for your assistance, Cadet," he offered and expected her to return to her seat, but she continued to stare at him.

"You should go to the clinic," she said. "You hit your head pretty hard."

"I am fine," Spock replied quietly and smoothed his jacket.

"You of all people should know better than to use that word with a language student," she said and smiled. It was small, and she shook her head.

"I will go following this lecture," he promised. This appeared to satisfy her. She resumed her seat, and Spock listened to his own voice echo around the room against a pulsing in his temples.

***

Spock had never been comfortable in the clinic. He sat on an examination table, which was too high to allow his feet to touch the floor. They hung off the edge and caused an uncomfortable pressure on the undersides of his thighs and buttocks. The clinic smelled of antiseptic. It was a white space, with textures of cotton and gauze and metal.

Coming here was decidedly unpleasant, yet necessary. Cadet Uhura was correct. Spock folded his hands on his lap. His stomach lurched even though he sat perfectly still. He closed his eyes and drew in long, deep breaths. He had been waiting for fourteen minutes, eleven seconds when he heard footsteps approach. As a man drew back the curtain, Spock saw the flash of a ring on his fifth finger.

"It's you," McCoy said with a scowl.

Spock narrowed his eyes. "If you cannot be objective regarding my treatment, respectfully, I request another physician."

McCoy took a deep breath. "I'm a doctor," he replied firmly. "Objective is my job. I'm just...surprised to see you in here. What's ailing you?"

"I collapsed in my classroom. A student reported I may have struck my head, though I discern no internal swelling or bleeding."

"You might have that flu that's been going around," McCoy muttered and took out a penlight, shining it first in Spock's eyes, then his mouth.

"Negative," Spock said. "I am experiencing physical discomfort that results from a severed pairbond."

McCoy frowned, though there was a flinch of surprise within the motion. He stepped back and switched off the pen light, folding his arms over his chest. "Shouldn't you see one of the Vulcan healers about that?" he asked gruffly.

"Doctor," Spock said in a low voice and averted his gaze. "I elected to sever my bond. They would not see the logic in it, and I would prefer to avoid their judgment."

"Alright," McCoy said. "I still need to scan your head, just to be sure." He rummaged through a drawer and brought out a small rectangular device. It hummed close to Spock's ear; McCoy swept it over the back of his skull, then studied the readout. "You're right, nothing serious, though you'll have a decent-sized lump for a few days."

"Understandable."

"What sort of physical discomfort are you experiencing? Dizziness? Weakness?"

"Nausea and a loss of balance," Spock said after a pause.

"I can give you an anti-nausea medication that will last about eight hours. That should be enough to get you through the day. How long do these symptoms last?"

"Uncertain," Spock said. "I have no precedent by which to judge."

"In that case, I'll send a second dose home with you. If you feel sick again tonight, take the whole thing, right into your neck. If you're still feeling sick tomorrow, come back here, and we'll reevaluate."

"Your assistance is appreciated."

McCoy entered a series of characters into the drug dispenser affixed to the wall, then scanned his right eye. A hypo fell into the waiting tray with a dull clang. McCoy pulled on a glove and brought the hypo to Spock's neck. It hissed as the medication released into his bloodstream. Instantly, the nausea subsided.

"Better?" McCoy asked.

"Yes," Spock said gratefully. McCoy placed the empty hypo in a bin for collection, then stripped off his glove and disposed of it. Spock looked down at his own hands. "How is Jim?" he asked.

"I can be objective about your health," McCoy warned him, "not your personal life."

"He will not respond to my messages."

"Can you blame him?" McCoy's voice had gone from professional neutrality to caustic.  

"I merely wish to explain," Spock said.

"That you lied to him?"

"I did not lie," Spock said carefully.

"You sure as hell didn't mention that you were married," McCoy snapped and reached for the curtain.

"It is not the same for Vulcans as it is for humans," Spock countered before McCoy could walk away. McCoy did not push the curtain open further, but he kept his hand on it. Spock swallowed and continued. "I had been promised to T'Pring since I was seven. I had no choice in it. Had the decision been mine, I would not have selected her."

"Let me see if I can make you understand this," McCoy said, dropping his voice just above a whisper. He looked Spock square in the eye. "He found out you were married when he introduced himself _to your wife_."

"I sincerely regret the circumstances through which he made her acquaintance," Spock said.

McCoy snorted. "I bet you do."

"I cannot change what happened, and he will not allow me to apologize. I respect his decision not to see me. I only wish to ascertain whether Jim is alright."

"What does it matter to you?"

"I…" Spock's voice stuck in his throat. He could not find the words to describe the maelstrom in his head. Could McCoy not understand what Jim meant to him? But McCoy's eyes were hard. "Please," Spock said.

McCoy took in a sharp breath and pursed his lips. "He's fine," he said after a minute. "Okay?"

It told Spock nothing, but he did not press McCoy for further information. He was clearly unwilling to provide it. Spock dropped his gaze back to his hands and looked at them miserably. His throat felt tight. He nodded once and slid from the examination table, straightening his uniform.

"Thank you," he said. He accepted the hypo that McCoy held out to him containing his evening dose. Turning it over on his palm, he asked, "Will you tell Jim that I asked about him?"

"I don't know," McCoy said, "but I promise you this: hurt him again and I'll hurt you, even if it means a court martial, Commander."

"Understood."

"Good," McCoy said and held the curtain wide. "Now get out of my clinic."

***

Speaking with McCoy should have made Spock feel better. He should have been relieved to hear that there was nothing wrong with Jim, yet he felt worse than he had before entering the clinic. There was no way of knowing for certain whether what McCoy said was true. And even if Jim wasn't fine at all, Spock supposed that he no longer had a right to know.

He sat on the edge of a bench on the lawn outside Archer Hall and tongued the inside of his cheek. There was a rough patch where he must have bitten it when he fell. It tasted faintly of blood. He set his jaw and forced himself to stop fidgeting. He lowered his shields by degrees, until he could just perceive the vibration of Jim's energy as Spock remembered it. He recalled the symphony of Jim's hands over his stomach, wet pleas in his ear. He had not thought of them in three months.

Did Jim ever think of him? Spock recalled the long weekend they had spent together, the hour-long drive from San Francisco, the thrill of Jim's mouth in the dark. The images were overlaid with McCoy's warning: "hurt him again and I'll hurt you."

_Again._

McCoy's word choice implied that there would be a future opportunity for Spock to hurt Jim. It was unlikely that McCoy believed Spock intended to harm Jim professionally. Did that mean there was a chance that Jim still desired a romantic relationship with him? If it was an impossibility, surely McCoy would not have phrased his threat in this way. He had not encouraged Spock, not by any definition, but his words sparked hope nonetheless.

Spock considered going to Jim's apartment and knocking on the door. Perhaps Jim would be less inclined to turn him away, if Spock came to speak with him in person. But what if McCoy were the one to answer the door? It was possible that Spock had misunderstood him just now, and that he would be turned away. Or perhaps Jim would view it as a violation of his privacy. No. He could not go to the apartment.

His mother would be of no help. He had not followed her advice in the first place, which explained his predicament. She only told him that Jim required time.

He glanced at his chronometer. His next lecture wasn't for another fifty-eight minutes. It would be wise to eat, but Spock wasn't hungry. Instead, he made his way to the control room for the _Kobayashi Maru_ simulation. Over breakfast he had received a message that a new cadet had been assigned to his team. He expected her in eighteen minutes. That gave him sufficient time to review the changes his last intern had completed the previous week. Cadet Jones had been proficient, if slow. He rarely had to correct her work. She possessed an excellent grasp of the code's syntax and never nested commands improperly. However, she had graduated with honors and received a ship assignment. Within a month, she would be leaving Earth. Cadet Vro would be his sixth intern in three years.

He was surprised to find her waiting for him when he arrived at the computer bank and scanned his ID for entrance. He was surprised further when he recognized her as the Orion woman of Jim's acquaintance. Her skin appeared darker green against the navy jumpsuit, red hair pulled back from her face.

"Commander," she said and saluted.

"Cadet," he said and hoped his voice didn't betray his otherwise calm disposition. "At ease."

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Granted."

"I hope this isn't going to be a problem," she said matter-of-factly.

"Please explain," Spock asked.

"Me being assigned as your intern. I'm still good friends with Jim," she clarified.

"I see," he said. "Be assured that your relationship with Cadet Kirk has no bearing on your work here."

"Fair enough," she said and seemingly relaxed. She allowed her arms to hang at her sides and regarded him with a head tilted ten degrees to the right. "I haven't seen you at a reading in a while."

He had not thought it appropriate to return, but he did not tell her that. "You continue to perform your work?" he deduced. The corner of her mouth lifted.

"Every Tuesday. I moderate the readings now."

He did not inquire whether Jim continued to attend them. Instead, he held her gaze for two and a half seconds, then pointed to the large screen by the window.

"This will be your work station," he told her and proceeded to demonstrate proper login procedure.

***

Spock reluctantly accepted Captain Pike's dinner invitation for that evening. He had studiously avoided them since he and Jim stopped speaking. He met with Pike only as necessary, in his office, and did not linger after being dismissed. But Pike had messaged him with instructions to be at his apartment at 2115 hours. "No excuses," it read in conclusion. Spock had planned to return home for meditation, to ensure his shields were adequate, but that must wait.

He arrived at 2113 and contemplated waiting outside an additional two minutes until it was the requested time, but he knew himself to be avoiding the inevitable. He signaled for entrance and waited until Pike's face appeared in the doorway.

"Commander," he said and held the door open long enough for Spock to walk through it. Spock removed his coat and laid it on the back of the couch. He stood at attention until Pike frowned and waved a hand at him. "Relax," he said. "I'm having a scotch. Can I get you anything?"

"Water," Spock replied.

Pike brought him a glass. They sat beside the fireplace, which crackled with a pleasant warmth. It was odd to see a real log burning, an archaic and inefficient form of heating, but it released a scent that reminded Spock of the temples on Vulcan. That and the sound, a soft hiss and pop as flames consumed the log, proved calming. Spock angled his body toward the fireplace to absorb the greatest amount of heat, and drew in a breath.

"Number One will be home soon," Pike said. "I wanted a few minutes alone, so we could speak in private."

"It would have been no trouble to come by your office."

"This isn't exactly an official matter," Pike said and rubbed his forehead. Spock sat straighter and drank three sips of water before setting the glass down. He rested his hands on his lap. Pike swirled the amber liquid in his glass and drank it with a grimace and shake of his head. Spock tongued the rough spot in his mouth before he could stop himself.

"Do you have any plans for the holidays?" Pike asked.

Spock intended to spend the holidays working, but he did not say so. "No," he answered. When Pike did not appear satisfied he added, "I will likely speak at length with my mother."

"You’re welcome to come for dinner," Pike said.

Spock nodded to indicate he understood. Pike took another drink.

"Listen," Pike said,  his voice momentarily strained, presumably from the burn of alcohol. "Kirk is due to take the _Kobayashi Maru_ soon. I need to make sure we don't have an issue here."

"Why would you presume there would be an issue?" Spock asked and lifted his chin.

"It's no secret what happened between the two of you," Pike replied. He sighed heavily and sat back, crossing an ankle over his knee. Spock drew up into his shoulders. "Even if I hadn't seen the kid's face right after it happened, it's pretty obvious from the way you've been avoiding each other. He won't come over for dinner if he thinks you're going to be here, and you've refused every invitation we've sent you for a couple months."

Spock pressed his mouth into a line and traced the impression of each tooth into his upper lip, his lower lip. If he bit down hard enough, he would injure himself. He allowed his mouth to fall slack and returned his eyes to the fire.

"He will not allow me to explain," he said.

"Jim's good at running away from his problems," Pike offered.

"I found him to enjoy a challenge," Spock countered.

"He does," Pike said, "if he thinks he can prove you wrong. How do you think I convinced him to do the accelerated track?"

Spock considered this. "You implied it was not possible for him to graduate within a limited timeframe."

"It worked. And he'll figure out a way around your test," Pike said.

"Not possible," Spock said. "It is programmed in such a way that no scenario allows for a favorable outcome."

"That may be," Pike said, "but Jim won't settle for that, especially considering how you two left things."

"You imply he will sabotage the test as a result of our misunderstanding?"

"I'm saying he'll try to beat you," Pike said, "in whatever way he can."

"It would be cheating," Spock said.

"Not in his opinion." Pike stood up and poured himself another drink, staring at the bottle thoughtfully. "You know, I hoped the two of you would serve together."

Spock had also desired this, but he did not say so.

"I wanted you both for the _Enterprise_ ," Pike continued. "I still do, as a matter of fact."

"I will not allow the cessation of my interpersonal relationship with a fellow shipmate to interfere with our ability to work together."

"Good," Pike said.

"However, I cannot speak for Cadet Kirk."

"Forgive me if this is overly personal, but you still seem pretty upset about it."

Spock took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose.

"It is illogical to want something which cannot be," he said thickly.

"Look, Spock," Pike said. He resumed his seat across from Spock and leaned forward on his knees. "I don't know everything that happened between the two of you. Maybe it isn't possible to patch things up—only the two of you can determine that—but humans forgive a lot, with time. If you really care about him, don't give up on him just yet."

"Has he indicated a willingness to reconcile?" Spock asked, his head snapping up. He tried to keep the hope from his voice, but he could hear it. He was grateful that Number One had not returned home yet. She might smirk, but Pike did not judge him. Spock held his breath and counted seven seconds.

"That's something you'll have to ask him," Pike said.

"Are you aware if...that is, to your knowledge, has Jim been in the company of—"

"That's _definitely_ something you'll have to ask him," Pike interrupted.

"I see."

There was a sound at the front door: a click of the lock disengaging. Spock detected notes of Number One's perfume before she rounded the corner. She was a formidable presence in a gold command tunic with a scarf at her neck, standing over Spock's chair. He swallowed.

"Well," she said, cocking her head to the side. "It's certainly been long enough. I hope you're hungry."

"Thank you for the invitation, Captain," Spock said and stood up.

"I'll set the table," Pike said, accepting the bag of takeout from her hand.

"Something to drink, Commander?" she asked Spock and went to the wet bar.

"I have water," he told her and picked up his glass.

"Chris tells me you and his protégé aren't speaking." She dropped three ice cubes into a tumbler; he heard them crack when the scotch touched them. He bristled at the sound.

"We are not," Spock answered quietly. He smelled oregano and garlic wafting from the kitchen, where Pike was setting out their meal. It was Italian, he deduced from the aroma. The thought made him sigh.

"I assume you want to fix that, judging by the look on your face," she said and turned around. She drank slowly, leaving an impression of red lips on the rim. She raised an eyebrow, and he realized that she was waiting for him to answer.

"Yes," he said.

She drank again and tapped her nails against the side of the glass. They were blue. As much as he admired her, she made him uncharacteristically nervous. He shifted his weight between his feet and concentrated on his breathing.

"Did Kirk ever tell you the story about what happened between him and Mitchell?" she asked. Spock shook his head. "Well, you're not going to hear it from me, but here's the thing: that kid's had a lifetime of abandonment. You know his mother was chief engineer on a ship by the time he was knee high."

"Jim mentioned that his mother was regularly off-planet."

"She'd be gone for years at a time. I know Winona. I like her. She's a lot like me, focused on work. She had the guts to have kids on top of it. I'm not saying she's a bad mother, because she isn't. She raised two damn good kids. But Jim grew up largely on his own, in the shadow of his father's memory, with a mother who wasn't around a lot. His brother ran away when Jim was about eleven, and then Jim went to live on Tarsus IV."

Spock startled at the planet's name. "I did not realize," he said haltingly.

"You wouldn't, not to talk to him. He doesn't wear it on his sleeve. But it certainly left an impression. He got into a lot of trouble as a kid. Chris finally talked him into enlisting, then Mitchell happened, and now you."

"I did not abandon him," Spock insisted. "I requested him to meet with me, and he refused."

"How did you request that?"

"I messaged him," Spock said.

"Honey," Number One said and laughed, though there was no humor in it. "You've got a lot to learn about humans if you plan on working with them." She looked like she might continue, but instead she nodded toward the kitchen. He followed her and took his usual seat at the counter, on the third stool. Number One began eating immediately, chatting to Pike as she did so. Spock poked a fork at a twist of noodles and tomato sauce.

"Sulking never fixed anything," Number One said. "Eat. You'll feel better."

But Spock did not feel better, even with a full stomach. The room seemed to spin, to toss back and forth like a ship. He knew the room was not moving, but he gripped the edge of the counter and took a steadying breath. Another. A third. Number One touched his shoulder.

"Spock," she said in a voice that was softer than he'd ever heard her use. Her hand was warm through his shirt, warm like his mother's hands, and he desperately wished he were on Vulcan. "Do you want me to call him?"

"It is not that," Spock managed. Perspiration gathered at his hairline, temples, and upper lip. Number One's perfume was assaulting. His stomach lurched, and he began to shake. "There is a hypospray containing an anti-nausea medication in my coat pocket. I require it."

"Oh," she said and stood up immediately, half-running to the living room. Fourteen seconds later, Spock felt the cold press of metal against his neck.

"How much?" she asked.

"All of it," Spock said. There was a click and sting, a hiss of medication being released. He heard Number One step away, but she stayed close to his side. He counted eight, nine, ten seconds before he was able to open his eyes. The plate before him swam into focus. He took a deep breath and nodded his gratitude.

"Exactly why are you carrying anti-nausea meds?" Number One asked.

"T'Pring and I had our bond severed," Spock said, instinctively reaching to touch his forehead. "I am experiencing side effects."

"You had your bond broken?" Pike repeated. "Spock, I'm sorry."

"It was our choice," Spock said.

"I see," Pike said. "Do you need to lie down?"

"I—" Spock began, blinking. "Perhaps the couch."

They each took an arm and walked him there, sitting on either side of him like concerned parents.

"Is it a good idea for you to stay by yourself tonight?" Number One asked. "What if you're sick during the night"

"I will be fine," Spock assured them. "The medication has relieved the symptoms. Once I am able to meditate, I can reinforce my shields."

"And here we forced you to dinner," Pike said through a weak laugh.

"I'll get the car, and we'll drive you home," Number One said. "I wouldn't feel right letting you walk."

"Thank you," Spock said.

They insisted on seeing him up to his apartment. Number One wasn't satisfied until Spock was seated on the couch, with a glass of water and a blanket.

"You've got your comm?" she asked.

"Yes," Spock said and produced it.

"If you need anything, you call," Pike said.

Spock nodded, and they left. He listened to their footsteps as they walked to the lift. He heard them speak quietly to one another; humans frequently forgot or were ignorant about the keenness of Vulcan hearing.

"Is it a good idea to leave him alone?" Number One asked.

"He'll call if there are any problems. Maybe I should talk to Jim."

"No," she said. "They've got to work this out on their own, besides—"

The lift arrived and muffled her words. Its doors slid open and closed after ten seconds. Forty-two seconds later, he heard the distinct sound of car doors, an engine, and then nothing. They were gone.

Taking the blanket, he spread it over his legs and settled back against the cushions. His couch was not as comfortable as Jim's. Spock had selected it for its quality and moderate price point. He had not considered there might be better criteria by which to choose furniture. It was the same with people, he conceded. Layer by layer, he fully unshielded the place in his mind where Jim remained.

It ached. Spock winced, but he allowed himself to feel it. He relived it all: the moment their eyes met across the cafe table, the hurt on Jim's face just before he walked away at the consortium. Spock had not looked into Jim's eyes since.

He wished that he had spoken with Number One in greater detail about what he had done wrong in attempting to contact Jim. Based on what she had said, he was able to deduce that she viewed his method of communication to be inefficient, perhaps even inappropriate. It was imperative he seek another opinion, but whose? The person should be acquainted with Jim, but he could not speak to McCoy again. He would not speak with Gary Mitchell under any circumstances.

Spock thought of Cadet Vro, who had been forthcoming with the information that she and Jim were still friends. He would see her in the morning, though it would be unethical to speak with her about personal matters. Perhaps he could ask her to meet with him off campus. They had become acquainted prior to her internship, after all. Starfleet discouraged fraternization between professors and students, but they did not forbid it outright. If he asked and Cadet Vro was willing to meet him, they would not be in violation of any rules.

He contented himself with that thought as he got ready for bed, reaching blindly into his dresser for a clean night shirt. What he pulled out did not belong to him, but he recognized it by touch: the black t-shirt Jim had last worn at his apartment, the morning he met Spock's mother. Jim had left it behind. Spock had laundered it, intent on presenting it to Jim the next time he visited, but he had never come back. Spock did not feel right bringing it to campus, so he had placed it at the bottom of his drawer, where he would not see it.

It was just a shirt. It was not a part of Jim, yet Spock held it to his chest before he pulled it on and inhaled, though it smelled of nothing more than laundry soap.


	4. Chapter 4

Gaila appeared amused by his suggestion that they have coffee together, but she was not surprised. She regarded him over her shoulder, hand hovering over the screen. She had brought up the textures that mapped onto the exterior of the warbirds. She was intent on correcting the appearance of the wings, which she deemed rough at the edges. The pattern did not line up correctly. He straightened as he awaited her answer.

"I knew it was only a matter of time before you asked," she confided, in a tone quiet enough that the other technicians would not be able to hear.

"I only wish to speak about Jim if you are willing," he said. "I cannot order you to do this."

"You're not ordering me," she said. "What does your schedule look like tonight?"

"I am free after 0645."

"Then meet me at Cochrane's at 0700," she said. "You'll buy me a drink, and I'll listen while you spill your guts."

"Thank you," Spock said, and he went to his own work station.

He reviewed changes made by the senior technicians, approved eight of them and rejected six that required additional work. He taught his afternoon lecture, held office hours, read, and hardly tasted his lunch. He looked up the address of Cochrane's, finding it to be within walking distance from campus. That explained its popularity with cadets. He often heard it referenced.

He hadn't thought to ask Gaila what he should wear, if his clothing was appropriate. He should not, he belatedly realized, wear his instructor's uniform to meet with a student in an unofficial capacity. However, there was not enough time for him to return home and change. Perhaps no one would recognize his uniform if he left on his overcoat? It was early December and cold outside. It was unlikely anyone would question a Vulcan for wearing a coat indoors. He tugged his hat tightly over his ears and started for the exit.

***

Spock recognized Gaila by her hair, which was loose and cascaded over her shoulders. She sat at the bar with a beer in hand and raised an eyebrow at him. He nodded to acknowledge that he had seen her, then made his way to the empty barstool she had thoughtfully reserved with a coat.

"I wasn't sure what you'd want," she said as he sat down.

"I will have water," he said and removed his hat and gloves. He folded them on his lap.

"You'll have something fun," she replied breezily. "Is it true about chocolate?"

"Yes," Spock sighed, so Gaila waved to the bartender.

"A chocolate martini," she said. "Heavy on the chocolate. And drinks are on him." She winked, which caused the bartender to blush and fumble the shaker as she poured a measure of vodka.

Spock had never been in this establishment, though he had heard Jim speak of it before. The interior was dim and required a thorough cleaning. He was careful not to touch any surfaces. The name, Spock knew, originated from Zephram Cochrane, though he saw little in tribute to the man's accomplishments besides his name on the partially lit sign outside. The room's acoustics were poor. Music blared at an unpleasant level. The barstools were metal and uncomfortable, but Gaila looked content sitting back in her seat, sipping beer through a straw.

"I believe beer is meant to be consumed from a bottle or glass," Spock offered helpfully. She elegantly shrugged one shoulder. The movement emphasized the black dress she wore. It revealed her shoulders and arms, and snaked to her ankles. Spock had to admit it was becoming.

"I like it this way," she said and sipped again noisily. The bartender slid Spock's martini to him with a bashful smile in Gaila's direction. "Thanks, sweetie," Gaila said. "Give me your ID if you want to see me sometime."

Spock watched the bartender reach into her pocket, take out her comm, and touch it to Gaila's.

"She's cute," Gaila mused as the bartender moved on to the next patron. She fixed her gaze on Spock and motioned to his drink. "What do you think?"

He gave it a calculating look. The liquid appeared pale brown and was opaque, nearly filling the glass that came to a point where it met the stem. From the side, it was shaped like a triangle. The sides of the glass had been swirled with a thicker brown substance, which Spock determined to be a form of chocolate. He took an experimental sip, wincing at the bitterness of the alcohol. He wanted to wipe his tongue after he swallowed, but Gaila had agreed to speak about Jim. He would consume the drink to please her, if nothing else.

"It is fine," he said and took another sip. "Cadet—"

"Gaila," she said. "We're in a bar, and I look gorgeous tonight. Call me Gaila."

"As you wish."

"So you want me to tell you how to get Jim back, is that it?" she asked, taking another sip through her straw.

"I wish to ascertain whether it is possible to regain his friendship."

"Let's not lie to ourselves. You want back in his pants. Believe me, I understand."

Spock clenched his jaw at the confirmation that Gaila and Jim had been intimate, but he said nothing.

"So," she continued. "The first thing you need to know about Jim is that he doesn't believe in a situation he can't win, and neither should you."

"That is illogical," Spock said.

"Maybe in a practical sense, but we're talking about emotions," she said. "Emotions aren't logical, and neither are humans. Jim's an emotional human, and you hurt him. Do you understand?"

"I should have been forthcoming about T'Pring's identity," he agreed.

"You should've been at his door that evening, on your knees, with _flowers_ , begging his forgiveness."

"He is allergic to many types of pollen," Spock said, confused. Gaila laughed.

"I'm going to call you Spock since we're drinking, okay?"

"That is reasonable."

"Good. _Spock_ , what I mean is that your apology needs to match his humiliation in intensity."

He had not considered that. He took another sip—it was somehow more palatable than the first two—and leaned toward her. "Please clarify," he said.

"Jim found out about your wife in front of a lot of people," she explained, "at an official Starfleet function, with your parents present, and then he had to act like there was nothing wrong for the rest of the night. You tried to apologize for that with a comm message."

"Should I apologize in public?" Spock asked.

"You should have prostrated yourself in front of him," she said with a stern look. "At the very least, you owed him a call. Imagine how he felt, getting nothing but polite messages asking him to call _you_?"

"Jim saw my efforts as insincere," he deduced.

"He saw them as a brush off," she said and waved for another beer.

"I continued to contact him for fifteen days."

"Via text," she reminded him. "And always the same message."

"I employed variations," Spock defended. Gaila eyed him narrowly.

"Do you want my help or not?"

"Yes," Spock said immediately and took two sips of his martini. It was...not bad. His body felt more relaxed.

"Okay. Well, lucky for us, Jim's still completely smitten with you."

"He has said that?"

"He comes to my readings every week," she said and accepted her new beer. It had a green paper umbrella in the neck, which Gaila promptly stuck behind her right ear.

"He regularly attended them," Spock said.

"Honey," Gaila said. Her curls bounced when she shook her head. "My stuff's not _that_ good."

"You imply he attended the readings to be in my company?"

Gaila nodded.

Spock mulled this over with another sip. "And you believe he continues to attend the readings in the event I might be there?" he guessed.

"Well, he certainly isn't going home with _me_ ," Gaila said. "And believe me, I've asked."

They were quiet got two minutes, eight seconds. Gaila observed the people around them and answered a comm message. Spock tightened his grip on the glass. "I should approach him at a reading," he decided, staring at the exposed swirl of chocolate. The remaining liquid was now approximately one point two inches below the rim, and Spock's hands felt pleasantly warm.

"That might work," Gaila mused. She drank through the straw, her cheeks hollowing out as she did. Her eyes widened dramatically. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I've got it."

Spock was uncertain what "it" was. He quirked an eyebrow.

"You've got to read him a poem," she said.

"As a gesture of humility?"

"A gesture of _love_."

"I am uncertain whether I can locate a poem capable of communicating our situation."

"I don't mean you should read him someone else's poem," she said and swatted his arm. "You have to write him one."

"I have never written poetry," Spock said and frowned.

"There's no mystery to it," she said. "Just...write how you're feeling."

"Perhaps it would be best if I were to approach his table?" Spock asked, wondering when his collar had grown restrictive.

"This is going to be so romantic!" Gaila declared.

***

Amanda had encouraged Spock to translate poetry in an effort to make him _read_ poetry. Initially, he hadn't seen merit in the writing form, not when compared with the scientific papers and math texts he preferred. She had suggested he use poetry as a way of better understanding language, so he agreed to translate one poem to please her.

The translation required more thought than he had initially presumed. A literal translation from the original French did not accurately communicate the poem's metaphor of opening oneself as one opened a door. In Vulcan, the poem read as cutting oneself open, which was not correct. It required creativity on Spock's part to locate words that were capable of describing human emotions. He used several that had not been common since before the reformation, and he was satisfied with his first attempt. It made his mother smile.

Spock worried that his father might disapprove, but he had perused his father's extensive library and discovered a shelf containing poetry volumes in eleven languages. And so translation had become something Spock did regularly, writing the poems first on a PADD, with a final draft in Golic calligraphy. He kept volumes of his work in his room, on two bookshelves, written in notebooks Amanda had collected during her travels with Sarek. He longed to hold one of those notebooks, to touch the fine paper stock and bound spines: six leather, twenty-two cloth, one metal, one thick paper. He closed his eyes and imagined the pinch of a pen between his fingers; the slow, exact dip into ink; the scratch and drag of the nib. Copying the translations into volumes had become its own art form, but Spock had never attempted to write his own verse.

Spock began composing Jim's poem in his head. He began with a haiku, preferring the form's precision. But he was unable to select just one of Jim's qualities as a focus—there were so many things about Jim that tantalized him—so he moved on to the sonnet, the soliloquy, to the opening of an epic. They were not right. He paced in front of the window, rubbing his eyes. He could not imagine Jim as any of these structures.

Instead, he went to his desk and accessed the schedule of cadets registered for the _Kobayashi Maru_ the coming week. The name at the top of the list did not surprise him, nor did it surprise him when Jim reported for the test Monday morning and failed. He did not look up to the observation deck once.

***

Tuesday morning, Spock stared at the re-test application, touching a finger to his lips. The waiting period to re-test was one standard month, yet Jim had requested a date just fifteen days from now. Spock must reject the application, but he stared at it instead for one minute, eight seconds and powered off his PADD. This was a test, just as the _Kobayashi Maru_ was a test, but Spock was uncertain what Jim wished to attain. Perhaps he wanted nothing more than for the simulation to be in his past. A crop of new ship assignments was due to be released April 1. If Jim passed, he would be eligible for an entry-level command position.

Spock wilted at the idea of Jim leaving, though it was an illogical reaction. Starfleet operated in space; naturally, Jim would go there. Jim would be assigned to a starship, likely the _Farragut_ or the _Hypatia_. Spock knew that he desired the _Enterprise_ , but it was unlikely that a cadet just out of the academy would be assigned the flagship once she launched, despite Pike being captain. Pike had only so much sway; surely the admiralty would not approve.

Spock replicated a second cup of tea and drank it while standing in the middle of his kitchen, not touching any surface but the floor. He should have left the memories of Jim shielded. He should approve the re-test application and allow Jim to leave. He should accept what happened between them; it was the Vulcan way. Instead, he longed for Jim's hands, for the warm brush of them under his shirt, the dance of fingers over each rib, resting over his heart.

He hung his head. He had never desired to feel like this. He had never intended to _feel_. But he did feel. It would be illogical to deny that.

Thirteen hours, thirty-three minutes remained until he was due to meet Gaila, but he had nothing to perform except four partial attempts at a poem and an apology he did not know how to word. He could not arrive empty handed, but Jim would not be contained within structured lines of verse.

It dawned on Spock that he was approaching the poem from the wrong perspective. He must start with Jim, not with a poetic form. The thought was comforting; it bolstered him through his shower, as he dressed, as he pulled on his hat and gloves and scarf before bearing the cold bay air. He walked with his head down, eyes on the sidewalk, and allowed himself the luxury of imprecision.

***

Spock relished the coffee shop's warm air, settling into the table closest to the fireplace. He was early; Gaila had not yet arrived. Two other patrons sat at round tables and did not acknowledge him. He removed his hat and gloves, tucking them neatly into his shoulder bag, and ordered a cup of spice tea. He noted the microphone, already in place, and felt his stomach twist. He regularly lectured in rooms that held three hundred students. The shop could seat no more than thirty-five, but his heart beat oddly.

It might as well have beat out of his side when Gaila walked in. She looked to her left and right, caught his eye, and winked. Jim entered after her, and they sat at the table closest to the microphone. Jim hadn't noticed him, so Spock kept his head bowed and watched the light reflect off of the surface of his tea. Seven more people entered; two sat close to Spock and obscured his view of Jim's table. He saw Jim's head turn in his direction, but it was unclear whether Jim saw him this time. He heard Jim's laughter and pressed his lips together firmly.

At 1902 hours, Gaila rose and tapped on the microphone.

"Hello, friends," she said. "We have a special guest this evening, a new poet who is going to debut his first piece for us. Please welcome him."

Spock was frozen stiff in his chair and did not move until she held out a hand and beckoned to him. He could make out the whispered comments as he walked from the corner to the center of the room—" _Is that a Vulcan_?"—past Jim's table, to the stage where Gaila stood. She looked at him softly and nodded to the microphone. Spock drew in a deep breath and held his hands together tightly at the small of his back. He raised his eyes to the first table and found Jim watching him.

Jim's expression was guarded, forehead slightly furrowed. He did not get up, and he did not look away. He raised an eyebrow, so Spock cleared his throat and began to speak.

 

> I intended to write
> 
> a haiku,
> 
> but I could not limit you
> 
> to seventeen _on_.
> 
> The form is pleasing in its exactness,
> 
> but you are not exact.
> 
> I would not alter you.
> 
>  
> 
> I exist between two worlds:
> 
> not fish,
> 
> not fowl,
> 
> both and neither.
> 
> My parents raised me
> 
> among the clouds, and
> 
> I looked skyward.
> 
>  
> 
> I did not realize I longed
> 
> for the sea,
> 
> for the deep,
> 
> unfathomable blue.
> 
> My people shun the motion of the waves.
> 
> When we met along the strand,
> 
> I would not enter the surf.
> 
>  
> 
> I was ashamed to inhale
> 
> the wet salt air,
> 
> but it pleased you that I did,
> 
> so I breathed in again.
> 
> The foam rose and floated around us.
> 
> After a lifetime out of water,
> 
> I found myself there.
> 
>  
> 
> I found you there.

Jim's eyes were still locked on his when Spock dipped his chin and stepped away from the microphone. He felt Gaila's fingers wrap around his wrist. He did not dare to look up, despite the polite applause and murmured words of appreciation. Gaila guided him off the platform, to the table where Jim sat.

"You two need to talk," she said and pushed Spock into a chair. He sat and locked his hands together on the table. Jim looked at him expectantly.

"Nice poem," he said.

"I am pleased you liked it."

Jim rubbed his neck and looked down. "You know," he continued, "if we're doing animal metaphors, you're like an amphibian more than anything else. You can live in the water _and_ on land."

"An amphibian is at home in both," Spock said quietly.

They looked at one another for seven seconds, until Jim sighed and dropped his eyes back to the table.

"Gaila talked you into this, huh."

"I should have come sooner."

"Yeah," Jim agreed and ran a hand through his hair. He had dark circles beneath each eye, and he had lost approximately five pounds. Spock longed to touch him, but he kept his hands still.

Behind him, Gaila resumed the microphone and began to speak. Jim's eyes flickered up, then settled back on Spock. Jim swallowed; Spock traced the movement of his throat.

"Listen," Jim whispered when Gaila paused between poems. "I know it's cold out, but do you want to take a walk after this?"

"Yes," Spock said immediately.

Jim nodded slowly and sat back, folding his arms over his chest, and smiled up at Gaila. When she finished her set and invited the next performer, Jim sat forward to applaud, and his foot bumped against Spock's. Jim made no indication that he was even aware of it, but he did not pull away.

***

"So you know you were basically an asshole," Jim said. His breath rose in white puffs, and he kept his hands jammed into his pockets. They walked side by side from the coffee shop back toward campus. The wind blew in gusts. Spock shivered, but he did not want to be anywhere else.

"Yes," he said and stilled the chattering of his teeth.

"And I pretty much have free license to tell you to fuck off."

"You do," Spock murmured. He prepared for the declaration, but it did not come. Jim kicked at the sidewalk instead. His shoe made a muffled scraping noise as the sole rubbed against the concrete. They walked quietly for two minutes, until Jim sniffed and cleared his throat.

"Pike said you got divorced," he blurted. He glanced to Spock, then back to the sidewalk, the streetlights, the stars.

"In a manner of speaking. We had our bond severed."

"How come?"

"It was not what either of us desired," Spock said after a pause.

"Are you okay?"

"I am no longer experiencing any side effects."

"No, I mean...are you feeling okay? Emotionally?"

"I feel only friendship for her," Spock told him.

"Oh," Jim said, and he sounded surprised. "Well, good."

They stopped in front of Jim's apartment building. Spock was prepared to say goodnight when Jim held open the door and nodded inside. Spock entered wordlessly, followed Jim into the lift, and stood in the kitchen clutching his hat as Jim made tea.

"You can hang up your coat," Jim said. His mouth curved into the barest of smiles. Spock complied, returning to see Jim pour boiling water into two mugs.

"Green, right?" he said and passed one into Spock's hands. "You know, this stuff's not bad, but I've had to drink it by myself the last few months. I've only got about five boxes of it left."

Spock wondered how many boxes Jim had originally purchased. Jim went to the couch, where he sat sideways with one foot on the floor. He patted the cushion next to him, so Spock sat down, careful to leave eighteen inches between them. Jim scooted closer, resting an elbow on the back of the couch, and leaned his cheek against a fist. He blew on his tea and sipped; Spock had not yet tasted his. He concentrated on his breathing, on the warmth that rolled off of Jim's leg, four point three inches from his. Hesitantly, he reached a hand to Jim's thigh, mirroring what Jim had done the first time they touched. He could feel Jim's desire: Jim still wanted him. Spock choked back his relief. Slowly, he began to knead Jim's leg.

Jim made a quiet noise and set down his mug. He took Spock's from him and whispered, "C'mere."

Spock twisted toward him. Jim wrapped his arms around Spock's neck, so Spock held him, drawing Jim closer until they were pressed together. He shook even though he was not cold, and he breathed in against Jim's shoulder. He pressed his lips to Jim's neck, to his throat, behind his ear, along his jaw, to his mouth which opened as Jim surged forward. He knotted his fingers in Spock's hair and moaned into his mouth as they kissed.

McCoy found them thirty-one minutes later, horizontal on the couch, legs tangled, hips grinding together, and Spock's hands underneath Jim's shirt. Jim didn't remove his mouth from Spock's when the door opened, just pulled back enough to say, "Hey, Bones" and resume kissing.

Jim radiated contentedness, so Spock did not ask him to sit up, though his face flushed when McCoy's footsteps ended beside the couch.

"Oh, good. You two finally came to your senses."

"Mmhm," Jim said and kissed Spock again. Spock kept his eyes closed and did not think of McCoy watching them.

"I'm glad," McCoy muttered. "Now take this show to your bedroom."

"If we do, will you make pancakes in the morning?" Jim asked, sitting up. His lips were swollen from kissing; Spock could not look away from them.

"You know," McCoy said, "I think you're due for another round of inoculations."

"Any protests against a location change?" Jim asked Spock.

"None," Spock said.

He nodded meekly to McCoy as Jim helped him up and led him into the next room. McCoy frowned and shook his head. Jim closed the door behind them but didn't switch on the bedroom light, so the room was dark. He was outlined by moonlight.

"I know it's early," Jim said, pulling off his shirt and dropping it on the floor at the foot of the bed. "But do you mind if we sleep for a couple hours? I'm beat."

"Your insomnia has returned," Spock deduced and smoothed a thumb over what he knew was a dark circle beneath Jim's left eye. Jim yawned and shook his head. He held out a hand and tugged Spock toward the bed. Spock removed his clothes, folded them quickly, and slid under the covers. They felt cold against his skin. Jim reached out his arms and brought Spock to him, settling against his chest.

"I missed this," he said, pressing his face into the juncture of Spock's shoulder and neck. Spock soaked in the feeling of Jim's _katra_ that seemingly reached for him through their bare skin.

Spock stroked along Jim's spine, to the dip of his lower back, and rubbed his face against Jim's hair. He sent a wave of apology and tensed—he had never communicated with Jim in that way before and was uncertain how Jim would react. But Jim merely buried himself more tightly into Spock's side and kissed his shoulder.

"I know," Jim whispered.

Hesitantly, Spock sent one more wave, trying to express the feeling Jim evoked in him. It was like the sunrise on Vulcan, steam rising from a bowl of homemade soup, the comforting rumble of I-Chaya's purr. It was puzzling, but when he was with Jim, Spock felt warm and very, very right. He had no words for it. He gathered up that feeling and concentrated on it, pushing it toward Jim, hoping he would understand. Jim laughed into his neck and kissed him.

"Me too."

***

Spock woke before the sun rose the next morning. It was 0532. He had slept longer than he intended, and he was fully rested. There was no logical reason to remain in bed, but Jim was still asleep, and nothing on the planet could have convinced Spock to leave him.

As the minutes ticked past, the room grew brighter. Jim lay on his side turned away from Spock, facing the window. His breaths were even and deep. Spock had watched Jim sleep before, but this felt new and secret. He couldn't keep his fingers from touching Jim, from skimming along his back, tracing the freckles on his shoulders, tangling in his hair. He wrapped an arm around Jim's middle and touched his stomach below his navel, where it was slightly rounded and soft. Jim smelled like sleep, like warm sheets. Spock inhaled against his neck and kissed him, and kissed him, and held Jim against his chest.

The amount of light through the window increased steadily as sunrise approached, chasing away the last vestiges of sleep. Spock checked the time. It was 0627. Jim rolled onto his back and squinted even though his eyes remained closed. He threw his right arm over his head, so his palm was exposed. Spock propped himself up on an elbow and traced it with his index finger.

"What are you doing?" Jim asked groggily, sniffing and blinking himself awake. Spock stilled his movements and brought Jim's hand to his lips.

"I am sorry for waking you."

Jim smiled and shook his head, burying his face in the pillow to yawn.

"My alarm's going to go off in a minute anyway," he said. "I didn't mean to sleep this long."

"Your body required it."

"I guess," Jim said and yawned again. It was endearing, the way his face scrunched up as he did, so Spock kissed him. They kissed until the alarm sounded forty seconds later. Jim snickered and switched it off, then got up to put his uniform into the laundry machine to refresh it. Spock went to the kitchen to prepare beverages while they waited. McCoy stood at the stove, watching something cook in a frying pan. Spock deduced it was a gluten product, from the smell of it. His stomach growled, but he simply took down a box of tea and looked for the tin of coffee. He had planned to brew a single cup, but McCoy pointed to a fresh pot without turning around.

"He takes it with double cream and sugar," he instructed. "Give him a single of each."

Spock nodded even though McCoy could not see him. He got out a matching set of mugs and placed them side by side on the counter. McCoy didn't speak to him while he prepared the beverages, but he turned around when Spock finished stirring Jim's coffee and lay the spoon in the sink.

"You might as well let the princess eat in bed," McCoy muttered as Jim shuffled past the kitchen back to the bedroom. Spock heard the swishing of the washing machine. "I made his favorite."

McCoy indicated a stack of round, steaming bread, approximately six inches in diameter and one quarter inch thick. Spock counted six layers and recognized them as pancakes, something his mother had occasionally made for him as a child before he declared a preference for _saffir_.

"How many does he typically eat?" Spock asked.

"Just take the plate," McCoy said gruffly, though there was affection in his tone. He flipped the pancakes cooking in the frying pan; they were a warm brown color. "I made plenty."

"Thank you," Spock said. He put the plate and both mugs on a tray that had stood propped up beside the sink. He fetched utensils and a napkin, and carried the tray into the bedroom. Jim had crawled back into bed and lay with the sheet pulled to his stomach. His underwear were conspicuously discarded beside the bed.

"Oh, man," Jim said, inhaling as Spock passed him the mug of coffee. "You're the best."

"I did not prepare the pancakes," he said, "or the coffee."

"You brought it to me in bed. Statement stands," Jim said, taking a long sip. He reached for a pancake and rolled it into a log, ignoring the fork Spock offered. Jim bit off the end and chewed lazily with his mouth half open, grinning. "Want some?"

He held it out to Spock, who leaned forward and took a bite with his eyes locked on Jim's. The flavor was familiar, the texture moist and spongy. Jim fed him another bite before pushing the rest of the pancake into his own mouth, then reached for another. They ate all six in that manner, as an offering from Jim's fingers. Spock set the tray and empty dishes on the floor, settling next to Jim contentedly and stroking his bare hip.

"I don't suppose I can talk you into calling out today," Jim said and nudged Spock's ankle with his foot. Spock shook his head.

"I hold lecture this morning."

"What if I'm naked in the scenario?"

"You are naked presently," Spock said.

"That makes one of us," Jim said.

He took Spock's hand and squeezed it, sending an image of them together in the shower. Spock considered that it would be a logical use of water and time, since Jim indicated a desire for sexual contact, and they both needed a shower before dressing for work. Spock met Jim's mouth hungrily and let Jim pull him on top, so that Spock rested between Jim's legs, and Jim arched up hard into him. His mouth was hot and bitter; Spock came in spurts across his stomach.

In the shower, Spock washed Jim's hair, moving his fingers methodically over his neck and scalp. He watched rivulets stream down Jim's face as he rinsed the shampoo away. Jim's eyes were closed. He licked water from his lips and tilted his head back, just enough to expose his throat. Spock bent down and sucked at it. He held Jim against the shower wall and took him in hand. Jim dropped his head to Spock's shoulder and moaned, digging his fingernails into Spock's skin when he came. When they kissed afterward, it tasted like water.

***

Spock reached for Jim's hand as they walked to campus. They both wore gloves, so the emotional transference was muted, but he could sense that Jim was immensely pleased by his action. He walked with Spock to his office, where he lingered until 0813 when he declared he had to get to class.

T'Vei arrived as Jim was leaving. He greeted her with a friendly "hey," and she offered him the _ta'al_. Once Jim had gone, she gave Spock a raised eyebrow as she took her seat. They were quiet for forty seconds. He watched as she straightened a stack of PADDs, jotted a message to herself, then met his eyes over her shoulder.

"Yes?" she asked.

"He is _more_ than suitable," Spock said proudly and resumed his work.

***

**Two weeks later**

"Seriously, fuck your test so hard."

Spock sighed and folded his hands on his desk, scanning up from his PADD. Jim glowered at him from the office doorway, gray jumpsuit unzipped. It hung open ungracefully. Jim's red cadet uniform matched his mood, which was stormy.

"I presume from your statement that you received the notification of your failure," Spock said calmly.

"I presume from your tone that you think I deserved it," Jim shot back, crossing his arms. "I don't think you actually want me to pass."

"Do you truly believe that?"

Jim exhaled and rolled his eyes simultaneously, but some of the tension left his shoulders. He slumped against the doorjamb. "No," he said.

"Have you considered divining the purpose of the test, rather than merely attempting to beat the simulation?"

"Isn't beating it the point?" Jim asked petulantly.

"The purpose is to experience fear in the face of certain death," Spock said. "To accept that fear, and to maintain control of one's self and one's crew."

Jim huffed. "So Starfleet wants captains who just _accept_ death, who give up instead of doing whatever's necessary to save the ship? That's bullshit."

"Regardless, it is a quality expected of every Starfleet captain."

"What if I just hack your program?"

Spock sighed heavily. "It would be cheating. And I should remind you that we are on campus, and I outrank you. You should not speak about such things to me, even in jest."

Jim came into the room fully and flopped into T'Vei's unoccupied chair.

"D'you really want me to be the kind of captain who goes willingly to his death?"

"A captain should die with honor," Spock answered vaguely. He cast his eyes to the far wall, unsettled by the conversation.

"What the hell good is honor if I'm dead?"

Spock had no answer for that, but he returned his gaze to Jim, who flicked his away. Jim spun around in the chair so they no longer faced each other.

"If my dad could've found any way, _any way_ to get off the _Kelvin_ —hell, even if it violated ever regulation in the book and cost him his career—I would've had a father. Sam might not have run away. My mom might not be fifty and still working herself to death. You really think honor's more important than that?"

Spock drew in a breath and held it, exhaling shakily after ten seconds. "Of course not," he said. Jim spun back around and looked at him with determination on his face.

"When I'm captain, you can bet your ass I'll do everything in my power to make sure my crew makes it home safely."

"You will make an excellent captain," Spock told him, "but you must pass this test in order to become one."

Jim was quiet for eighteen seconds. "Alright," he said, leaning forward. "I'll agree to do this your way, on one condition."

"Are you attempting to bribe a superior officer?" Spock asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"See if your mom wants to make a return trip to Earth," Jim finished.

"My mother?" Spock repeated, blinking twice.

"When she was here, she said she wanted to see me graduate since my mom won't be able to make it," Jim said with a shrug. "I'll have a couple days free before I get my assignments and start training, and the _Enterprise_ isn't launching until April, at the earliest. She said her sister lives up the coast. I thought we could take a road trip, spend some time together before we head out."

"There is no guarantee that we will be assigned the same ship," Spock reminded him. Jim shrugged lightly.

"You know Pike's gonna pull strings." He winked and licked his lips.

Spock's mouth twitched. "I presume he will try," he said.

"Anyway," Jim said, rotating the chair to the right, then back to the left, "I know early February isn't the best weather for sightseeing, but I thought it might be cool if she came back. I mean, if you're okay with that."

Raising an eyebrow, Spock asked, "Would my mother's opinion not be the one you should obtain first?"

"Uh," Jim said and scratched his face. His cheeks flushed slightly and he tugged at the zipper on his jumpsuit. "Well, I might have already commed her about it."

Spock blinked. "You have been in contact with my mother?"

Jim shrugged. "We weren't sure how you'd react."

"How did you obtain her contact information?"

"I'm brilliant with computers," Jim said with a cheeky grin. He held Spock's gaze for three seconds, then dropped his eyes and wiped his mouth. "Do you want to get food?"

"Yes," Spock agreed.

"Italian?"

"Yes."

"Sorry for yelling at you earlier," Jim offered.

"Your apology is unnecessary," Spock said, but having heard it made him feel lighter. "I am aware you were not angry with me personally."

Jim stood up and glanced out into the hallway, then bent over Spock's chair to kiss him thoroughly. "We're going to make an awesome command team one day," he said into Spock's mouth.

Spock pictured them standing side by side on the bridge of a starship, the viewport looming before them, bright with stars. He kissed Jim in return and touched his hand briefly, then rose and smoothed his uniform before putting on his coat.

"Come on," Jim said, tugging him out the door. "We'll call your mom on the way."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope the fluff at the end made up for all the angst. You can find me [on Tumblr](http://museaway.tumblr.com) and [Livejournal](http://museaway.livejournal.com). And if you're curious, you can check out my writing playlist for this fic [on 8tracks](http://8tracks.com/museaway/among-the-clouds).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Among the Clouds 在云端](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1734173) by [Sbc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sbc/pseuds/Sbc)




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